.LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OP 
CALIFORNIA 


WINONA 

A  DAKOTA   LEGEND 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

CAPTAIN  E.  L.  HUGGINS 
2d   Cavalry  U.  S.  Army 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  LONDON  . 

27  West  Twenty-third  St.        37  King  William  St,,  Strand 


1890 


LOAN  STACK 


COPYRIGHT,  1890 

BY 
ELI  L.  MUGGINS. 


fmfcfcerbocfcer  press,  Hew  HJorft 

Electrotyped,  Printed,  and  Bound  by 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 


CONTENTS. 


WINONA,  A  DAKOTA  LEGEND. 

PROEM.        .        .  .        ...        .        3 

PART  I.        .        . •       5 

PART  II.       .        .        .        .        ....      20 

PART  III >.        -33 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

To  A  YOUNG  MAN 43 

TELL  ME,  DEAR  BIRD        .        .        .  .45 

PERDITA 47 

STANZAS  TO  52 

LOVE'S  TRIBUTE         .      .  .        .      ••.<••'       •      55 

THE  LITTLE  SHEPHERDESS.—  PASTORELLE     .     57 
A  FAREWELL      .       .       .       .       ....     58 

To  A  FICKLE  FAIR  ONE      .        .        .        •    .    •      59 
To  THE  SAME      .....        .        .        .59 

THE  PALACE  OF  REPOSE    .       .       .       .       .60 

MOODS         .        . 63 

To  -        •    .      __.        •  _.-       •        •     -*       •      74 

To  76 

To  THE  SAME     .        .        .        ......      76 

To  THE  SAME     .       .       .       .    •    .  ,..•;  .  •   •      76 

iii 


29-1 


IV  CONTENTS. 

TRANSLATIONS  AND  IMITATIONS.  PACE 

IF  MY  VERSES  HAD  WINGS  LIKE  A  BIRD. — 

HUGO .79 

'TwixT  SLEEP  AND  WAKING.  —  PROSPER 

BLANCHEMAIN 80 

WHITE  SWAN  SAILING. — FROM  THE  RUSSIAN,  81 
THE  ROSES  OF  S  A  ADI.—  DESBORDES-VALMORE,  84 

ROSE-BUDS. — BERANGER 85 

THE  BIRD  I  WAIT  EOR. — MOREAU  .  .  .87 
VISIONS. — DE  MUSSET  .  .  .  .  .89 
THE  FISHERMAN'S  BRIDAL. — DELAVIGNE  .  92 
You  HAD  MY  WHOLE  HEART. — DESBORDES- 

VALMORE     .        .        .        .        .        .        .      95 

ART. — THEOPHILE  GAUTIER  .  -•»•"•  .  .  97 
BARCAROLLE. — THEOPHILE  GAUTIER  .  .  100 
SHADOWS. — THEOPHILE  GAUTIER  .  .  .  103 
SONNET:  Ou  VONT  ILS? — SULLY  PRUDHOMME,  113 
THE  GAY  CASHIER. — ADAPTED  FROM  THE 

FRENCH        .        .        .       .        .        .        .114 

THE  RAVAGES  OF  TIME. — SCARRON  .  -.  .  115 
HALLUCINATION. — FROM  THE  FRENCH. 

I.  .        .        .        .        .   '    f       .        .116 

II ,..116 

III.  .        .       '.       -.        .        .       .        .     117 

IV.  IN  THE  GROVE 118 

To  MY  CRITICS. — DE  MUSSET    .        .       .       .119 
THE  YOUTH  AND  THE  OLD  MAN. — FLORIAN     .     121 
THE  CATHEDRAL    BELL    AND    ITS  RIVAL. — 

IRIARTE        .        .        .       .       .       *       .    123 


CONTENTS.  V 

BLUE  EYES  AND  BLACK  EYES. — IMITATED  FROM  PAGE 

ANDALUSIAN  COPLAS. 

I.  .        .        ,        .        .        .        .        .     ,   .  125 

II.  .         .        .    '    i-r  :  .    '  '."•'.        Y  •-'•'.  126 
COMPLAINT  To  THE  VIRGIN. — FROM  A  CUBAN 

POETESS       .       .      T"  .  '"..'.    '.".     .  128 

THE  CRUCIFIXION.    OLD  FRENCH  SONNET     .  132 

FROM  THE  SPANISH    .        .        .        ...  133 

THE  BOOK  OF  LIFE. — LAMARTINE    .        .        .  134 
MEMORIAL  DAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS.     DEDICATED 

TO  THE  G.  A.  R. 

TWENTY  YEARS  AGO.    WRITTEN  FOR  MEMO 
RIAL  DAY,  1885    .       ...       .       -137 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN    .        .      : .'        .        .    ~    .  141 

THE  PRISONER'S  DREAM   .       .       .       .       .  142 

How  OFT  A  SENTRY  SAD  AND  LONE        .        .  143 

FROM  COPLAS  OF  AN  ANDALUSIAN  SOLDIER    .  144 

FROM  THE  SAME      \        .        .        .        .        .  145 

THE  GLORY  OF  A  SPANISH  DRAGOON. — FROM 

THE  SAME    .        .        .     '   .        ...        .  146 

WRITTEN  FOR  A  REUNION  OF  VETERANS  IN 

THE  YEAR  1915     .        .        .        .       .'     .  148 

TWENTY-FIVE  SONNETS. 

To  -            ........  153 

POESY .        .154 

THE  ROSE  .       .    •-.       .       .'     .  -155 

To  A  FAIR  SANTA  BARBARAN  .        .                .  156 

LA  DIVA      . 157 

To  A  HAPPY  LOVER    ....*.  158 


vi  CONTENTS. 

METEMPSYCHOSIS.  PAGE 

I.  .        . 159 

II.  ....               ....  159 

THREE  SONNETS  IN  MEMORIAM. 

I.  DESPAIR — THE  ABYSS     .        .        .        .  161 

II.  QUESTIONING 161 

III.  CONSOLATION       .....  162 

IN  MEMORY  OF  D.  G.  R 163 

IN  MEMORY  OF  JOHN  BROWN  OF  OSSAWATTO- 

MIE.    INSCRIBED  TO  JOHN  J.  INGALLS. 

1 164 

II 165 

III 165 

OUR  LOST  ONES 167 

THE  OCEAN  OF  THE  PAST        .        .        .        .168 

EVIL  DAYS 169 

ENVY  AND  SLANDER.    To  N.  N.  M.         .        .170 

TRUE  FREEDOM.    To  J.  F.  F 171 

"  SOCIETY  " 172 

THE  STAGNANT  POOL 173 

THE  MAN  WITH  THE  MUCK  RAKE.        .        .174 

IMMORTALITY 175 

To  A  YOUNG  ARTIST 176 


WINONA  :  A  DAKOTA 


WINONA :  A  DAKOTA  LEGEND. 


PROKM. 

TT  OW  changed,  fair  Minnetonka,  is  thy  face 
*  *     Since  first  I  saw  thee  in  thy  pristine  grace. 
Electric  lights  fantastically  glow, 
Swarming  like  fire-flies  on  the  shores  where  long, 
Through  countless  summer  nights  a  vanished 

throng, 

Only  the  Indian  camp-fire  flickered  low. 
The  odor  of  the  baleful  cigarette 
Assails  us  now,  where  the  mild  calumet 
Around  the  circle  like  a  censer  swung. 
The  notes  of  Strauss  intoxicate  the  air, 
And  dainty  feet  in  cadence  twinkle  there, 
Where  in  rude  strains  the  warriors'  deeds  were 

sung, 

And  where  the  Indian  lover's  plaintive  flute 
I<ured  to  the  trysting-place  the  dusky  maid. 
3 


4  W1NONA. 

Discreetly  hidden  in  the  sylvan  shade, 

The  Anglomaniac  comes  to  press  his  suit, 

And  Patrick,  too,  out  for  a  holiday, 

Strolls  with  his  Bridget  here  en  dimanch^ 

And  softly  whispers  in  his  charmer's  ear 

The  same  old  tale,  to  lovers  ever  dear. 

The  rustling  leaves,  the  waves,  the  mating  bird, 

Sing  the  same  songs  the  Indian  maiden  heard. 

Save  a  few  stately  names,  the  vanished  race 

Whose  dust  we  daily  trample  leave  no  trace 

Or  monument.     None  who  that  race  have  known 

Ere  poisoned  by  the  vices  of  our  own, 

Deem  it  ignoble  ;  but  the  white  man's  breath, 

To  him  a  besom  of  consuming  death, 

Sweeps  him  like  ashes  from  his  natal  hearth, 

B'en  as  one  day  some  race  of  stronger  birth 

Will  sweep  our  children's  children  from  the  earth. 

More  noxious  than  the  fabled  upas  tree, 

We  blight  his  virtues  first,  and  then  with  scorn 

Repel  the  hands  extended  once  to  save 

Our  exiled  fathers,  fleeing  o'er  the  wave. 

Yet  in  his  deepest  fall,  the  warrior,  born 

Of  warrior  lineage  fetterless  and  free, 

Retains  unquenched  in  his  unyielding  soul 

A  secret  flame  in  spite  of  all  control. 

He  brooks  no  slavish,  ignominious  toil, 

By  scourger  driven  to  till  the  white  man's  soil. 

Chained  in  Plutonian  caverns  far  from  day, 


W I  NONA.  5 

His  spirit  swiftly  chafes  its  bars  away  ; 
Or  by  his  own  impatient  hand  released, 
With  rapture  bounds  as  to  a  marriage  feast. 
Wealth,  pomp,  and  power  ne'er  his  soul  affect ; 
Still  unabashed  he  stands,  unmoved,  erect, 
His  blanket  draped,  albeit  not  too  clean, 
About  him  with  a  Roman  consul's  mien, 
And  in  the  white  light  of  a  throne  his  eye 
Would  meet,  nor  quail,  the  eye  of  majesty. 
His  own  war-eagle  to  the  sun  that  soared, 
Gave  back  with  eye  undimmed  its  fiery  glare, 
And  sported  with  the  speaking  lightnings  where 
The  Thunder-Birds 1  along  the  tempest  roared  ; 
Or  swept  the  plain,  but  saw  no  Indian  slave 
From  the  Pacific  to  Atlantic  wave. 

Fair  Minnetonka,  thou  art  changed,  and  yet 
I  know  not  if  'twere  matter  for  regret. 
Thou  wast  a  maid  untried,  with  yielding  heart, 
With  flowing  hair,  and  ample  sheltering  arms, 
And  unabashed  contours,  whose  rosy  charms 
Were  all  untrammelled  by  the  hand  of  art, 
And  eyes  of  dreamy  mystery,  wherein 
E'en  then  thy  triumphs  dimly  were  foreseen  ; 
A  worldly-wise  and  queenly  woman  now, 
Adorned  with  spoil  of  many  victories, 

1  Thunder-Bird,  a  supernatural  winged  creature  which 
causes  thunder  and  lightning  by  the  flapping  of  its 
wings  and  the  winking  of  its  eyes. 


6  WIN  ON  A. 

And  flush  of  further  conquest  on  thy  brow  ; 
Jewels  cannot  thy  native  charms  enhance, 
Nor  can  thy  robes,  too  tightly  laced  perchance, 
The  matchless  beauty  of  thy  form  disguise. 
Through  every  change,  by  every  tongue  confessed, 
Peerless  amid  thy  sisters  East  or  West ; 
L,ike  her  of  whom  the  master-singer  wrote, 
' '  Age  cannot  wither  her  nor  custom  stale 
Her  infinite  variety. ' ' 

Thus  float 

My  wandering  thoughts,  as  on  the  balcony 
I  sit  alone  bathed  in  the  moonlight  pale, 
And  musing  thus  the  scene  changed  suddenly : 
Hotel  and  cottage  vanished  ;  to  the  shore 
The  prairie  sloped  a  green  unbroken  floor. 
Eight  lustrums  back,  through  rosy  summers  fled, 
Adown  a  dwindling  vista  far  I  sped, 
A  careless  youth  ;  again  my  hoary  head 
Bloomed  with  the  sunny  wealth  of  twenty  years. 
A  day  came  back,  a  day  without  compeers, 
When  with  a  bright  companion  long  since  dead, 
In  my  canoe  I  flitted  o'er  the  lake, 
And  our  swift  paddles  scattered  pearly  tears 
Upon  the  smiling  ripples  in  our  wake. 

She,  my  companion,  was  a  little  maid 
Of  somewhat  rustic  garb,  of  English  speech, 
Yet  something  in  her  accents  quaint  and  rich, 
And  the  warm  tinge  upon  her  cheek,  betrayed 


WIN  ON  A.  / 

The  mingling  crimson  of  a  darker  shade,  — 
Her  kinship  to  the  remnant  lingering  still, 
Whose  cone-shaped  lodges  picturesquely  stood, 
Dotting  the  hither  base  of  yonder  hill, 
I/ike  late  leaves  clinging,  spite  of  growing  chill, 
Upon  the  boughs  of  a  November  wood. 
Changing  our  mood,  we  idly  drifted  there, 
Two  happy  children  in  a  cradling  shell 
Poised  'twixt  two  azure  vaults  ;  the  mystic  spell 
Of  Indian  summer  brooded  in  the  air, 
Filling  with  human  love  and  sympathy 
K'en  things  inanimate  ;  the  earth  and  sky 
Leaned  to  each  other,  and  the  rocks  and  trees, 
brothers,  seemed  sharing  our  reveries. 


"  Tell  me  some  legend  of  the  lake,"  I  cried, 

"  For  in  a  spot  that  breathes  on  every  side 

Such  air  of  poesy,  whose  influence 

Subdues  with  such  a  charm  our  every  sense, 

How  many  loving  hearts  have  loved  and  died  ! 

How  many  souls  as  lofty  and  intense 

As  those  whose  names  throughout  the  whole  world 

ring, 

In  the  high  songs  the  olden  minstrels  sing  ! 
Who  hears  those  voices  e'en  but  for  a  day, 
The  sound  remains  a  part  of  him  alway  : 
Penelope  the  constant  ;  Hero  sweet  ; 
Briseis  weeping  at  Achilles'  feet  ; 
Andromeda  by  winged  Perseus  found  — 


8  WINONA. 

Bright  blossom  to  the  sea-girt  rock  fast  bound  ; 
The  Lesbian,  queen  of  song,  but  passion's  slave, 
Who  quenched  her  burning  torch  beneath  the 

wave  ; 

Helen,  whose  beauty,  like  a  fatal  brand, 
L,it  up  the  towers  of  Troy  o'er  sea  and  land  ; 
And  Juliet,  swaying  at  her  window's  height, 
What  slender  lily  in  the  wan  moonlight. ' ' 

*  *  I  do  not  know, ' '  the  little  maid  replied, 

'  *  The  names  of  which  you  speak,  but  ere  she 

died 

My  mother  told  me  many  stories  old, 
Some  joyous  and  some  sad,  of  warriors  bold, 
And  spirits,  haunting  forest,  plain,  and  stream. 
Kach  had  its  god,  and  creatures  of  strange  form, 
Half  beast,  half  human ;  all  these  figures  seem 
Mingling  away  in  a  fantastic  swarm, 
Dim  as  the  faces  of  a  last  year's  dream, 
Or  motes  that  mingle  in  a  slant  sunbeam. 
The  legends  vanish  too  ;  among  them  all 
This  one  alone,  distinctly  I  recall." 

The  tale  she  told  me  then  I  now  rehearse, 
Set  in  a  frame  of  rude,  unpolished  verse. 


WINONA. 


PART  I. 

Winona,1  first-born  daughter,  was  the  name 

Of  a  Dakota  girl  who,  long  ago, 

Dwelt  with  her  people  here  unknown  to  fame. 

Sweet  word,  Winona,  how  my  heart  and  lips 

Cling  to  that  name  (my  mother's  was  the  same 

Ere  her  form  faded  into  death's  eclipse), 

Cling  lovingly,  and  loth  to  let  it  go. 

All  arts  that  unto  savage  life  belong 

She  knew,  made  moccasins,  and  dressed  the  game. 

From  crippling  fashions  free,  her  well-knit  frame 

At  fifteen  summers  was  mature  and  strong. 

She  pitched  the  tipi,2  dug  the  tipsin  3  roots, 

Gathered  wild  rice  and  store  of  savage  fruits. 

Fearless  and  self-reliant,  she  could  go 

Across  the  prairie  on  a  starless  night ; 

She  speared  the  fish  while  in  his  wildest  flight, 

And  almost  like  a  warrior  drew  the  bow. 

Yet  she  was  not  all  hardness  :  the  keen  glance, 

lighting  the  darkness  of  her  eyes,  perchance 

Betrayed  no  softness,  but  her  voice,  that  rose 

O'er  the  weird  circle  of  the  midnight  dance, 

Through  all  the  gamut  ran  of  human  woes, 

Passion,  and  joy.     A  woman's  love  she  had 

1  The  name  given  by  the  Dakotas  to  the  first-born,  if  a 
female. 

2  Tipi,  skin  tent. 

8  An  edible  root  found  on  the  prairies. 


10  WINONA. 

For  ornament ;  on  gala  days  was  clad 
In  garments  of  the  softest  doeskin  fine, 
With  shells  about  her  neck  ;  moccasins  neat 
Were  drawn,  like  gloves,  upon  her  little  feet, 
Adorned  with  scarlet  quills  of  porcupine. 
Innocent  of  the  niceties  refined 
That  to  the  toilet  her  pale  sisters  bind, 
Yet  much  the  same  beneath  the  outer  rind, 
She  was,  though  all  unskilled  in  bookish  lore, 
A  sound,  sweet  woman  to  the  very  core. 

Winona's  uncle,  and  step-father  too, 
Was  all  the  father  that  she  ever  knew ; 
By  the  Absarakas 1  her  own  was  slain 
Before  her  memory  could  his  face  retain. 
Two  bitter  years  his  widow  mourned  him  dead, 
And  then  his  elder  brother  she  had  wed. 
None  loved  Winona's  uncle  ;  he  was  stern 
And  harsh  in  manner,  cold  and  taciturn, 
And  none  might  see,  without  a  secret  fear, 
Those  thin  lips  ever  curling  to  a  sneer. 
And  yet  he  was  of  note  and  influence 
Among  the  chieftains  ;  true  he  rarely  lent 
More  than  his  presence  in  the  council  tent, 
And  when  he  rose  to  speak  disdained  pretence 
Of  arts  rhetoric,  but  his  few  words  went 

1  The  Crow  Indians,  hereditary  foes  of  the  Dakotas, 
call  themselves  Absaraka,  which  means  crow  in  their 
language. 


WINONA.  1 1 

Straight  and  incisive  to  the  question's  core, 
And  rarely  was  his  counsel  overborne. 
The  Raven  was  the  fitting  name  he  bore, 
And  though  his  winters  wellnigh  reached  three 
score, 

Few  of  his  tribe  excelled  him  in  the  chase. 
A  warrior  of  renown,  but  never  wore 
The  dancing  eagle  plumes,  and  seemed  to  scorn 
The  vanities  and  follies  of  his  race. 

I  said  the  Raven  was  beloved  by  none  ; 

But  no,  among  the  elders  there  was  one 

Who  often  sought  him,  and  the  two  would  walk 

Apart  for  hours,  and  converse  alone. 

The  gossips,  marvelling  much  what  this  might 

mean, 

Whispered  that  they  at  midnight  had  been  seen 
Far  from  the  village  wrapped  in  secret  talk. 
They  seemed  in  truth  an  ill-assorted  brace, 
But  Nature  oft  in  Siamese  bond  unites, 
By  some  strange  tie,  the  farthest  opposites. 
Gray  Cloud  was  oily,  plausible,  and  vain, 
A  conjurer  with  subtle  scheming  brain ; 
Too  corpulent  and  clumsy  for  the  chase, 
His  lodge  was  still  provided  with  the  best, 
And  though  sometimes  but  a  half  welcome  guest, 
He  took  his  dish  and  spoon  to  every  feast.1 

1  Bach  Indian  guest  at  a  banquet  carries  with  him  his 
own  wooden  bowl  and  horn  spoon. 


12  WINONA. 

Priestcraft  and  leechcraft  were  combined  in  him, 
Two    trades    occult   upon    which   knaves   have 

thriven, 

Almost  since  man  from  Paradise  was  driven  ; 
Padding  with  pompous  phrases  worn  and  old 
Their  scanty  esoteric  science  dim, 
And  gravely  selling,  at  their  weight  in  gold, 
Placebos  colored  to  their  patients'  whim. 
Man's  noblest  mission  here  too  oft  is  made, 
In  heathen  as  in  Christian  lands,  a  trade. 
Holy  the  task  to  comfort  and  console 
The  tortured  body  and  the  sin-sick  soul, 
But  pain  and  sorrow,  even  prayer  and  creed, 
Are  turned  too  oft  to  instruments  of  greed. 
The  conjurer  claimed  to  bear  a  mission  high  : 
Mysterious  omens  of  the  earth  and  sky 
He  knew  to  read  ;  his  medicine  could  find 
In  time  of  need  the  buffalo,  and  bind 
In  sleep  the  senses  of  the  enemy. 
Perhaps  not  wholly  a  deliberate  cheat, 
And  yet  dissimulation  and  deceit 
Oozed  from  his  form  obese  at  every  pore. 
Skilled  by  long  practice  in  the  priestly  art, 
To  chill  with  superstitious  fear  the  heart, 
And  versed  in  all  the  legendary  lore, 
He  knew  each  herb  and  root  that  healing  bore  ; 
But  lest  his  flock  might  grow  as  wise  as  he, 
Disguised  their  use  with  solemn  mummery. 
When  all  the  village  wrapped  in  slumber  lay, 


WINONA.  13 

His  midnight  incantations  often  fell, 

His  chant  now  weirdly  rose,  now  sank  away, 

As  o'er  some  dying  child  he  cast  his  spell. 

And  sometimes  through  his  frame  strange  tremors 

ran — 

Magnetic  waves,  swept  from  the  unknown  pole 
Linking  the  body  to  the  wavering  soul ; 
And  swifter  came  his  breath,  as  if  to  fan 
The  feeble  life  spark,  and  his  finger  tips 
Were  to  the  brow  of  pain  like  angel  lips. 
No  wonder  if  in  moments  such  as  these 
He  half  believed  in  his  own  deities, 
And  thought  his  sacred  rattle  could  compel 
The  swarming  powers  unseen  to  serve  him  well. 

The  Raven  lay  one  evening  in  his  tent 

With  his  accustomed  crony  at  his  side  ; 

Around  their  heads  a  graceful  aureole 

Of.  smoke  curled  upwrard  from  the  scarlet  bowl 

Of  Gray  Cloud's  pipe  with  willow  bark  supplied. 

Winona's  thrifty  mother  came  and  went, 

Her  form  with  household  cares  and  burdens  bent, 

Fresh  fuel  adds,  and  stirs  the  boiling  pot. 

Meanwhile  the  young  Winona,  half  reclined, 

Plies  her  swift  needle,  that  resource  refined 

For  woman's  leisure,  whatsoe'er  her  lot, 

The  kingly  palace  or  the  savage  cot. 

The  cronies  smoked  without  a  sign  or  word, 
Passing  the  pipe  sedately  to  and  fro  ; 


14  WIN  ON  A. 

Only  a  distant  wail  of  hopeless  woe, 

A  mother  mourning  for  her  child,  was  heard, 

And  Gray  Cloud  moved,  as  though  the  sound  had 

stirred 

Some  dusty  memory  ;  still  that  bitter  wail, 
Rachel's  despairing  cry  without  avail, 
That  beats  the  brazen  firmament  in  vain, 
Since  the  first  mother  wept  o'er  Abel  slain. 
At  length  the  conjurer's  lips  the  silence  broke, 
Softly  at  first  as  to  himself  he  spoke, 
Till  warmed  by  his  own  swarming  fancies'  brood 
He  poured  the  strain  almost  in  numbers  rude. 

THE     COMBAT     BETWEEN     THE     THUNDER-BIRDS 
AND   THE   WATER-DEMONS. 

Gray  Cloud  shall  not  be  as  other  men, 

Dull  clods  that  move  and  breathe  a  day  or  two, 

Ere  other  clods  shall  bury  them  from  view. 

Tempest  and  sky  have  been  my  home,  and  when 

I  pass  from  earth  I  shall  find  welcome  there. 

Sons  of  the  Thunder-Bird  my  playmates  were, 

Ages  ago  l  (the  tallest  oak  to-day 

In  all  the  land  was  but  a  grass  blade  then). 

Reared  with  such  brethren,  breathing  such  an  air, 

My  spirit  grew  as  tall  and  bold  as  they  ; 

1  Many  Indians  believe  in  the  transmigration  of  souls, 
and  some  of  them  profess  to  remember  previous  states 
of  existence. 


WINONA.  15 

We  tossed  the  ball  and  flushed  the  noble  prey 
O'er  happy  plains  from  human  footsteps  far  ; 
And  when  our  high  chiefs  voice  to  arm  for  war 
Rang  out  in  tones  that  rent  the  morning  sky, 
None  of  the  band  exulted  more  than  I. 

A  god  might  gaze  and  tremble  at  the  sight 
Of  our  array  that  turned  the  day  to  night ; 
With  bow  and  shield  and  flame-tipped  arrows  all, 
Rushing  together  at  our  leader's  call, 
I,ike  storm  clouds  sweeping  round  a  mountain 

height. 

The  lofty  cliffs  our  warlike  muster  saw, 
Hard  by  the  village  of  great  Wabashaw,1 
Where  through  a  lake  the  Mississippi  flows  ; 
Far  o'er  the  dwelling  of  our  ancient  foes, 
The  hated  Water-Demon a  and  his  sons, 
Cold,  dark  and  deep  the  sluggish  current  runs. 

Up  from  their  caverns  swarming,  when  they  heard 
The  rolling  signal  of  the  Thunder-Bird, 
The  Water-Demon  and  his  sons  arose, 
And  answered  back  the  challenge  of  their  foes. 
With  horns  tumultuous  clashing  like  a  herd 
Of  warring  elks  that  struggle  for  the  does, 
They  lashed  the  wave  to  clouds  of  spray  and 
foam, 

1  A  renowned  chief  formerly  living  on  I^ake  Pepin. 

2  A  supernatural  monster  inhabiting  the  larger  rivers 
and  lakes,  and  hereditary  foe  of  the  Thunder-Bird. 


1 6  WIN  ON  A. 

Through  which  their  forms  uncouth,  like  buffa 
loes 

Seen  dimly  through  a  morning  mist,  did  loom, 
Or  isles  at  twilight  rising  from  the  shore. 

Though  we  were  thirty,  they  at  least  fourscore, 
We  rushed  upon  them,  and  a  midnight  pall 
Over  the  seething  lake  our  pinions  spread, 
'Neath  which  our  gleaming  arrows  thickly  sped, 
As  shooting  stars  that  in  the  rice-moon  fall. 
Rent  by  our  beating  wings  the  cloud- waves  swung 
In  eddies  round  us,  and  our  leader's  roar 
Smote  peal  on  peal,  and  from  their  bases  flung 
The  rocks  that  towered  along  the  trembling  shore. 

A  Thunder-Bird — alas,  my  chosen  friend, 

But  even  so  a  warrior's  life  should  end, — 

A  Thunder-Bird  was  stricken  ;  his  bright  beak, 

Cleaving  the  tumult  like  a  lightning  streak, 

Smote  with  a  fiery  hiss  the  watery  plain  ; 

His  upturned  breast,  where  gleamed  one  fleck  of 

red, 

His  sable  wings,  one  moment  wide  outspread, 
Blackened  the  whirlpool  o'er  his  sinking  head. 

The  Water-Demon's  sons  by  scores  were  slain 
By  our  swift  arrows  falling  like  the  rain  ; 
With  yells  of  rage  they  sank  beneath  the  wave 
That  ran  all  redly  now,  but  could  not  save. 


WINONA.  I/ 

We  asked  not  mercy,  mercy  never  gave ; 
Our  flaming  darts  lit  up  the  farthest  caves, 
Fathoms  below  the  reach  of  deepest  line  ; 
Our  cruel  spears,  taller  than  mountain  pine, 
Mingled  their  life  blood  with  the  ruddy  wave. 

The  combat  ceased,  the  Thunder-Birds  had  won. 
The  Water-Demon  with  one  favorite  son 
Fled  from  the  carnage  and  escaped  our  wrath. 
The  vapors,  thinly  curling  from  the  shore, 
Faint  musky  odors  to  our  nostrils  bore. 
The  air  was  stilled,  the  silence  of  the  dead  ; 
The  sun,  just  starting  on  his  downward  path, 
A  rosy  mantle  o'er  the  prairie  shed, 
Save  where,  like  vultures,  ominous  and  still, 
We  clustered  close,  on  sullen  wings  outspread  ; 
And  sometimes,  with  a  momentary  chill, 
A  giant  shadow  swept  o'er  plain  and  hill, — 
A  Thunder-Bird  careering  overhead, 
Seeking  the  track  by  which  the  foe  had  fled. 

While  thus  we  hovered  motionless,  the  sun 
Adown  the  west  his  punctual  course  had  run, 
When  lo,  two  shining  points  far  up  the  stream 
That  split  the  prairie  with  a  silver  seam, — 
The  fleeing  Water-Demon  and  his  son  ; 
lyike  icicles  they  glittered  in  the  beam 
Still  struggling  up  from  the  horizon's  rim. 
His  sleeping  anger  kindled  at  the  sight, 
Our  leader's  eyes  glowed  like  a  flaming  brand. ' 


by  c::e  impulse,  r.!l  our  s  i  jl; 

rou'rli    the   fratherinrr    shadow;:;   of    I  he 


1 3 


Tlirllle: 
Dove    t 

it 

On  wings  outshaken  for  a  headlong  flight. 
Anger,  revenge,  but  more  than  all  the  thirst, 
The  glorious  emulation  to  be  first, 
Stung  me  like  fire,    and  filled  each  quivering 

plume. 
With  tenfold  speed  our  sharp  beaks  cleft  the 

gloom, 

A  swarm  of  arrows  singing  to  the  mark, 
We  hissed  to  pierce  the  foe  ere  yet  't  was  dark. 

Still  up  the  stream  the  Water-Demons  fled, 
Their  bodies  glowed  like  fox-fire  far  ahead  ; 
But  every  moment  saw  the  distance  close 
Between  our  thirsting  spear-heads  and  our  foes. 
Louder  the  blast  our  buzzing  pinions  made 
Than  mighty  forest  in  a  whirlwind  swayed  ; 
The  giant  cliffs  of  Redwing  speeding  back, 
Like  spectres  melting  from  a  cloudy  wrack, 
Melted  from  view  in  our  dissolving  track. 
Kaposia's  village,  clustered  on  the  shore, 
With  sound  of  snapping  poles  and  tipis  riven, 
Vanished  like  swan's-down  by  a  tempest  driven. 
Stung  by  our  flight,  the  keen  air  smote  us  sore 
As  ragged  hailstones  ;  on,  still  on,  we  strained, 
And  fast  and  faster  on  the  chase  we  gained, 
But  neck  and  neck  the  fierce  pursuit  remained, 


irjiva^'A.  19 

Till  cioS2  ahead  \ve  sa\v  the  rocky  walls 
O'er  whicli  the  mlglily  river  plunging  falls,1 
And  at  their  base  the  Water-Demons  lay  : 
The  panting  chase  at  last  had  turned  to  bay. 

Then  thrilled  my  nerves  with  more  than  mortal 

strength  ; 

A  breath  of  Deity  was  in  the  burst 
That  bore  me  out  a  goodly  lance's  length 
To  meet  the  Water-Demon's  son  accurst. 
His  evil  horn  clanged  hollow  on  my  shield 
Just  as  my  spear  transfixed  him   through  and 

through ; 

A  moment  towering  o'er  the  foam  he  reeled, 
Then  sank  beneath  the  roaring  falls  from  view. 
A  dying  yell  that  haunts  me  yet  he  gave, 
And  as  he  fell  the  crippled  water  coiled 
About  him  like  a  wounded  snake,  and  boiled, 
Lashing  itself  to  madness  o'er  his  grave. 

We  knew  not  where  the  parent  Demon  fled  ; 
None  of  our  spears  might  pierce  his  ancient  mail, 
Welded  with  skill  demoniac  scale  on  scale. 
Some  watery  realm  he  wanders,  and  't  is  said 
That  he  is  changed  and  bears  a  brighter  form, 
And  goodly  sons  again  about  him  swarm  ; 
And  peace,  't  is  but  a  hollow  truce  I  know, 
Now  reigns  between  him  and  his  ancient  foe. 
1  The  falls  of  St  Anthony. 


2O  WIN  ON  A. 

He  hates  me  still,  and  fain  would  do  me  harm, 
But  neither  man  nor  demon  dares  offend, 
Who  hath  the  cruel  Thunder-Bird  for  friend. 

PART  II. 

Nature  hath  her  elite  in  every  land, 

Sealed  by  her  signet,  felt  although  unseen. 

Winona  'mid  her  fellows  moved  a  queen, 

And  scarce  a  youthful  beau  in  all  the  band 

But  sighed  in  secret  longing  for  her  hand. 

One  only  she  distinguished  o'er  the  rest, 

The  latest  aspirant  for  martial  fame, 

Redstar,  a  youth  whose  coup-stick  like  his  name 

(Till  recently  he  had  been  plain  Chaske)  1 

Was  new,  fresh  plucked  the  feathers  on  his  crest. 

Just  what  the  feats  on  which  he  based  his  claim 

To  warlike  glory  it  were  hard  to  say  ; 

He  ne'er  had  seen  more  than  one  trivial  fray, 

But  bold  assurance  sometimes  wins  the  day. 

Winona  gave  him  generous  credit,  too, 

For  all  the  gallant  deeds  he  meant  to  do. 

His  gay,  barbaric  dress,  his  lofty  air 

Enmeshed  her  in  a  sweet  bewildering  snare. 

Transfigured  by  the  light  of  her  own  passion, 

She  saw  Chaske  in  much  the  usual  fashion 

1  The  name  given  to  the  first-born,  if  a  male.  Upon 
becoming  a  warrior  or  performing  some  notable  feat,  the 
youth  is  permitted  to  select  another  name. 


WIN  ON  A.  21 

Of  fairer  maids,  wlio  love,  or  think  they  do. 
'T  is  not  the  man  they  love,  but  what  he  seems ; 
A  bright  Hyperion,  moving  stately  through 
The  rosy  ether  of  exalted  dreams. 

Alas  !  that  love,  the  purest  and  most  real, 
Clusters  forever  round  some  form  ideal  ; 
And  martial  things  have  some  strange  necro 
mancy 

To  captivate  romantic  maiden  fancy. 
The  very  word  ' '  Lieutenant ' '  hath  a  charm, 
E'en  coupled  with  a  vulgar  face  and  form, 
A  shrivelled  heart  and  microscopic  wit, 
Scarce  for  a  coachman  or  a  barber  fit ; 
His  untried  sword,  his  title,  are  to  her 
Better  than  genius,  wealth,  or  high  renown  ; 
His  uniform  is  sweeter  than  the  gown 
Of  an  Episcopalian  minister  ; 
And  ' '  dash, ' '  for  swagger  but  a  synonym, 
Is  knightly  grace  and  chivalry  with  him. 

Unnoted  young  Winona's  passion  grew, 
Chaske  alone  the  tender  secret  knew  ; 
And  he,  too  selfish  love  like  hers  to  know, 
Warmed  by  her  presence  to  a  transient  glow, 
Her  silent  homage  drank  as  't  were  his  due. 
Winona  asked  no  more  though  madly  fond, 
Nor  hardly  dreamed  as  yet  of  closer  bond  ; 


22  WIN  ON  A. 

But  Chance,  or  Providence,  or  iron  Fate 
(Call  it  what  name  you  will),  or  soon  or  late, 
Bends  to  its  purpose  every  human  will, 
And  brings  to  each  its  destined  good  or  ill. 

THE;  GROVE;. 

O'erlooking  Minnetonka's  shore, 
A  grove  enchanted  lured  of  yore, 
l,ured  to  their  deepest  woe  and  joy, 
A  happy  maiden  and  careless  boy  ; 
I/ured  their  feet  to  its  inmost  core, 
Where  like  snowy  maidens  the  aspen  trees 
Swayed  and  beckoned  in  the  breeze, 
While  the  prairie  grass,  like  rippling  seas, 
Faintly  murmuring  lulling  hymns, 
Rippled  about  their  gleaming  limbs. 

There  is  no  such  charm  in  a  garden-close, 

However  fair  its  bower  and  rose, 

As  a  place  where  the  wild  and  free  rejoice. 

Nor  doth  the  storied  and  ivied  arch 

Woo  the  heart  with  half  so  sweet  a  voice 

As  the  bowering  arms  of  the  wild- wood  larch, 

Where  the  clematis  and  wild  woodbine 

Festoon  the  flowering  eglantine  ; 

Where  in  every  flower,  shrub,  and  tree 

Is  heard  the  hum  of  the  honey-bee, 

And  the  linden  blossoms  are  softly  stirred, 

As  the  fanning  wings  of  the  humming-bird 


WIN  ON  A.  23 

Scatter  a  perfume  of  pollen  dust, 

That  mounts  to  the  kindling  soul  like  must ; 

Where  the  turtles  each  spring  their  loves  renew — • 

The  old,  old  story,  * '  coo-roo,  coo-roo, ' ' 

Mingles  with  the  wooing  note 

That  bubbles  from  the  song-bird' s  throat ; 

Where  on  waves  of  rosy  light  at  play, 

Mingle  a  thousand  airy  minions, 

And  drifting  as  on  a  golden  bay, 

The  butterfly  with  his  petal  pinions, 

From  isle  to  isle  of  his  fair  dominions 

Floats  with  the  languid  tides  away  ; 

Where  the  squirrel  and  rabbit  shyly  mate, 

And  none  so  timid  but  finds  her  fate  ; 

The  meek  hen-robin  upon  the  nest 

Thrills  to  her  lover's  flaming  breast. 

Youth,  Love,  and  Life,  'mid  scenes  like  this, 

Go  to  the  same  sweet  tune  of  bliss  ; 

E'en  the  flaming  flowers  of  passion  seem 

Pure  as  the  lily  buds  that  dream 

On  the  bosom  of  a  mountain  stream. 

Such  was  the  grove  that  lured  of  yore, 
O'erlooking  Minnetonka's  shore, 
Lured  to  their  deepest  woe  and  joy 
A  happy  maiden  and  careless  boy, — 
Lured  their  feet  to  its  inmost  core  ; 
Where  still  mysterious  shadows  slept, 
While  the  plenilune  from  her  path  above 


24  WINONA. 

With  liquid  amber  bathed  the  grove, 

That  through  the  tree-tops  trickling  crept, 

And  every  tender  alley  swept. 

The  happy  maiden  and  careless  boy, 

Caught  for  a  moment  their  deepest  joy, 

And  the  iris  hues  of  Youth  and  lyove, 

A  tender  glamour  about  them  wove  ; 

But  the  trembling  shadows  the  aspens  cast 

From  the  maiden's  spirit  never  passed ; 

And  the  nectar  was  poisoned  that  thrilled  and 

filled, 

From  every  treacherous  leaf  distilled, 
Her  veins  that  night  with  a  strange  alloy. 

Swift  came  the  hour  that  maid  and  boy  must  part ; 
A  glow  unwonted,  tinged  with  dusky  red 
Winona's  conscious  face  as  home  she  sped  ; 
And  to  the  song  exultant  in  her  heart, 
Beat  her  light  moccasins  with  rhythmic  tread. 
But  at  the  summit  of  a  little  hill, 
Along  whose  base  the  village  lay  outspread, 
A  sudden  sense  of  some  impending  ill 
Smote  the  sweet  fever  in  her  veins  with  chill. 
The  lake  she  skirted,  on  whose  mailed  breast 
Rode  like  a  shield  the  moon  from  out  the  west. 
She  neared  her  lodge,  but  there  her  quick  eye 

caught 
The  voice  of  Gray  Cloud,  and  her  steps  were 

stayed, 


WIN  ON  A.  25 

For  over  her  of  late  an  icy  fear 

Brooded  with  vulture  wings  when  he  was  near. 

She  knew  not  why,  her  eye  he  never  sought, 
Nor  deigned  to  speak,  and  yet  she  felt  dismayed 
At  thought  of  him,  as  the  mimosa's  leaf 
Before  the  fingers  touch  it  shrinks  with  dread. 
She  paused  a  moment,  then  with  furtive  tread 
Close  to  the  tipi  glided  like  a  thief  ; 
With  lips  apart,  and  eager  bended  head, 
She  listened  there  to  what  the  conjurer  said. 

His  voice,  low,  musical,  recounted  o'er 
Strange  tales  of  days  when  other  forms  he  wore  : 
How,  far  above  the  highest  airy  plain 
Where  soars  and  sings  the  weird,  fantastic  crane, 
Wafted  like  thistle-down  he  strayed  at  will, 
With  power  almost  supreme  for  good  or  ill, 
Over  all  lands  and  nations  near  and  far, 
Beyond  the  seas,  or  'neath  the  northern  star, 
And  long  had  pondered  where  were  best  to  dwell 
When  he  should  deign  a  human  shape  to  wear. 
"  Whether  to  be  of  them  that  buy  and  sell, 
With  fish-scale  eyes,  and  yellow  corn-silk  hair, 
Or  with  the  stone-men  chase  the  giant  game. 
But  wander  where  you  may,  no  land  can  claim 
A  sky  so  fair  as  ours  ;  the  sun  each  day 
Circles  the  earth  with  glaring  eye,  but  sees 
No  lakes  or  plains  so  beautiful  as  these  ; 


26  WIN  ON  A. 

Nor  e'er  hath  trod  or  shall  upon  the  earth 

A  race  like  ours  of  true  Dakota  birth. 

Our  chiefs  and  sages,  who  so  wise  as  they 

To  counsel  or  to  lead  in  peace  or  war, 

And  heal  the  sick  by  deep  mysterious  law. 

Our  beauteous  warriors  lithe  of  limb  and  strong, 

Fierce  to  avenge  their  own  and  others'  wrong, 

What  gasping  terror  smites  their  battle  song 

When,  night-birds  gathering  near  the  dawn  of 

day, 

Or  wolves  in  chorus  ravening  for  the  prey, 
They  burst  upon  the  sleeping  Chippeway  ; l 
Their  women  wail  whose  hated  fingers  dare 
To  reap  the  harvest  of  our  midnight  hair  ; 
Swifter  than  eagles,  as  a  panther  fleet, 
A  hungry  panther  seeking  for  his  meat, 
So  swift  and  noiseless  their  avenging  feet. 


Dakota  matrons  truest  are  and  best, 
Dakota  maidens  too  are  loveliest. ' ' 

He    ceased,    and  soon,    departing  through    the 

night, 

She  watched  his  burly  form  till  out  of  sight. 
And  then  the  Raven  spoke  in  whispers  low  : 
"  Gray  Cloud  demands  our  daughter's  hand,  and 

she 

1  Hereditary  foe  of  the  Dakotas. 


WINONA.  27 

Unto  his  tipi  very  soon  must  go. " 

Winona's  mother  sought  to  make  reply, 

But  something  checked  her  in  his  tone  or  eye. 

Again  the  Raven  spoke,  imperiously  : 

' '  Winona  is  of  proper  age  to  wed  ; 

Her  suitor  stiits  me,  let  no  more  be  said. ' ' 

Winona  heard  no  more  ;  a  rising  wave 

Of  mingled  indignation,  fear,  and  shame 

lyike  a  resistless  tempest  shook  her  frame, 

The  earth  swam  round  her,  and  her  senses  reeled ; 

Better  for  her  a  thousand  times  the  grave 

Than  life  in  Gray  Cloud's  tent,  but  what  could 

she 

Against  the  stern,  implacable  decree 
Of  one  whose  will  was  never  known  to  yield  ? 

Winona  fled,  scarce  knowing  where  or  how  ; 
Fled  like  a  phantom  through  the  moonlight  cool 
Until  she  stood  upon  the  rocky  brow 
That  overlooked  a  deep  sequestered  pool, 
Where  slumbering  in  a  grove-encircled  bay 
I^ake  Minnetonka's  purest  waters  lay. 
Unto  the  brink  she  rushed,  but  faltered  there — 
lyife  to  the  young  is  sweet ;  in  vain  her  eye 
Swept  for  a  moment  grove  and  wave  and  sky 
With  mute  appeal.  But  see,  two  white  swans  fair 
Gleamed  from  the  shadows  that  o'erhung  the 
shore, 


28  WINONA. 

I^ike  moons  emerging  from  a  sable  screen ; 
Swimming  abreast,  what  haughty  king  and  queen, 
With  arching  necks  their  regal  course  they  bore. 
Winona  marvelled  at  the  unwonted  sight 
Of  white  swans  swimming  there  at  dead  of  night, 
Her  frenzy  half  beguiling  with  the  scene. 
Unearthly  heralds  sure,  for  in  their  wake 
What  ruddy  furrows  seamed  the  placid  lake. 
Almost  beneath  her  feet  they  came,  so  near 
She  might  have  tossed  a  pebble  on  their  backs, 
When  lo,  their  long  necks  pierced  the  waters 

clear, 

As  down  they  dove,  two  shafts  of  purest  light, 
And  chasing  fast  on  their  descending  tracks, 
A  swarm  of  spirals  luminous  and  white, 
Swirled  to  the  gloom  of  nether  depths  from  sight. 

Then  all  was  still  for  some  few  moments'  space, 

So  smooth  the  pool,  so  vanished  every  trace, 

It  seemed  that  surely  the  fantastic  pair 

Had  been  but  snowy  phantoms  passing  there. 

Winona  hardly  hoped  to  see  them  rise, 

But  while  she  gazed  with  half  expectant  eyes, 

The  waters  strangely  quivered  in  a  place 

About  the  bigness  of  a  tipi's  space, 

Where  weirdly  lighting  up  the  hollow  wave 

Beat  a  deep-glowing  heart,  whose  pulsing  ray 

Now  faded  to  a  rosy  flush  away, 

Now  filled  with  fiery  glare  the  farthest  cave. 


W I  NONA.  29 

A  shapeless  bulk  arose,  then,  taking  form, 

Bloomed  forth  upon  the  bosom  of  the  lake 

A  crystal  rose,  or  hillock  mammiform, 

And  round  its  base  the  curling  foam  did  break 

As  round  a  sunny  islet  in  a  storm  ; 

And  on  it  poised  a  swiftly  changing  form, 

With  filmy  mantle  falling  musical, 

And  colors  of  the  floating  bubble's  ball, 

Fair  and  elusive  as  the  sprites  that  play, 

Bright  children  of  the  sun-illuniined  spray, 

'Mid  rainbows  of  a  mountain  waterfall. 

Then  mingling  with  the  falling  waters  came 

In  whispers  sibilant  Winona's  name  ; 

So  indistinct  and  low  that  voice  intense, 

That  she,  half  frightened,  cowering  in  the  grass 

In  much  bewilderment  at  what  did  pass, 

Till  thrice  repeated  noted  not  its  sense. 

She  rose,  and  on  the  very  brink  defined, 
Against  the  sky  in  silhouette  outlined, 
Erect  before  the  Water-Demon  stood. 
Again  those  accents  weird  her  wonder  stirred, 
And  this  is  what  the  listening  maiden  heard  : 
"  Thy  fate,  Winona,  hangs  on  thine  own  choice 
To  scorn  or  heed  the  Water-Demon's  voice. 
Gone  are  thy  pleasant  days  of  maidenhood, 
And  evil  hours  draw  nigh,  but  knowest  thou  not, 
That  what  thou  fleest  is  the  common  lot 
Of  all  thy  sisters  ?     Thou  must  be  the  bride 


30  WINONA. 

Of  one  them  lovest  not,  must  toil  for  him, 
Watch  for  his  coming,  and  endure  his  whim  ; 
Must  share  his  tent,  and  lying  at  his  side 
Weep  for  another  till  thine  eyes  grow  dim. 
And  he,  so  fondly  loved,  will  pass  thee  by 
Indifferent  with  cold  averted  eye  ; 
K'en  he,  whose  wanton  hands  and  hated  arms 
Have  crushed  the  fair  flower  of  thy  maidenhood, 
Will  weary  of  thy  swiftly  fading  charms, 
And  seek  another  when  thy  beauty  wanes. 
Aha,  thou  shudderest ;   in  thy  tense  veins, 
Fierce  and  rebellious,  leaps  the  mingling  blood 
Of  countless  warriors,  high  of  soul  and  brave ; 
And  would' st  thou  quench  their  spirit  'neath  the 

wave  ? 
Is  Gray   Cloud's  life   more   dear  to   thee   than 

thine  ? 

The  village  sleeps,  unguarded  is  his  tent, 
Thy  knife  is  keen,  and  unto  thee  is  lent 
A  spell  to-night  of  potency  malign. 
Cradled  in  blissful  dreams  alone  he  lies, 
And  he  shall  stray  so  deep  in  sleep's  dominions, 
He  would  not  waken  though  the  rushing  pinions 
Of  his  own  Thunder-Bird  should  shake  the  sky. 
All  freedom-loving  spirits  are  with  thee, 
Strike  hard  and  fear  not  as  thou  would' st  be  free ; 
I^est  thine  own  hatred  prove  too  weak  a  charm, 
The    Water-Demon's    hate    shall    nerve    thine 

arm/' 


WINONA.  31 

The  Water-Demon  sank  and  disappeared, 
And  faint  and  fainter  fell  those  accents  weird, 
Until  the  air  was  silent  as  the  grave, 
Still  as  December's  crystal  seal  the  wave. 
Homeward  again  Winona  took  her  way. 
How  changed  in  one  short  hour  !  no  longer  now 
The  song-birds  singing  at  her  heart,  but  there 
A  thousand  gnashing  furies  made  their  lair, 
And  urged  her  on  ;  her  nearest  pathway  lay 
Over  a  little  hill,  and  on  its  brow 
A  group  of  trees,  whereof  each  blackened  bough 
Bore  up  to  heaven  as  if  in  protest  mute 
Its  clustering  load  of  ghostly  charnel  fruit,1 
The  swaddled  forms  of  all  the  village  dead — 
Maid,  lusty  warrior,  and  toothless  hag, 
The  infant  and  the  conjurer  with  his  bag, 
Peacefully  rotting  in  their  airy  bed. 
As  on  a  battle  plain  she  saw  them  lie, 
Fouling  the  fairness  of  the  moonlit  sky  ; 
And  heavily  there  flapped  above  her  head, 
Some  floating  drapery  or  tress  of  hair, 
leading  with  pestilential  breath  the  air 
That  fanned  her  temples,  or  the  reeking  wing 
Of  unclean  bird  obscenely  hovering  ; 
And  something  crossed  her  path  that  halting 
nigh, 

1  The  Dakotas  formerly  disposed  of  their  dead  by  fasten 
ing  them  to  the  branches  of  trees,  or  to  rude  platforms. 
This  is  still  practised  to  some  extent 


32  WINONA. 

At  the  intruder  glared  with  evil  eye, — 
She  hardly  heeded  passing  swiftly  by. 

leaving  behind  that  hideous  umbrage  fast, 
What  wraith  escaping  from  its  tenement, 
Winona  through  the  sleeping  village  passed, 
And  pausing  not,  to  Gray  Cloud's  tipi  went, 
I/aid  back  the  door,  and  with  a  stealthy  tread, 
Entered  and  softly  crouched  beside  his  head. 
Her  gaze  that  seemed  to  pierce  his  inmost  thought, 
Keen  as  the  ready  knife  her  hand  had  sought, 
And  through  the  open  door  the  slant  moonbeams 
Smiting  the  sleeper's  face  awaked  him  not. 
He  vaguely  muttered  in  his  wandering  dreams 
Of  "  medicine,"  and  of  the  Thunder-Bird. 
As  if  to  go,  her  knife  she  half  returned  ; 
Whether  her  woman's  heart  with  pity  stirred, 
Or  superstitious  awe,  she  slightly  turned, 
But  gazing  still,  over  his  features  came 
The  semblance  of  a  smile,  and  his  arms  moved, 
Clasping  in  rosy  dreams  some  form  beloved, 
And  his  lips  moved,  and  though  no  sound  she 

heard, 
She  thought  they  shaped  her  name,  and  a  red 

flame 
Leaped  to  her  brain,    and  through   her  vision 

passed  ; 

A  raging  demon  seized  and  filled  her  frame, 
And  like  a  lightning  flash  leaped  forth  her  knife  : 


WIN  ON  A.  33 

That  cold  keen  heart-pang  is  his  last  of  life  ; 
The  Water-Demon  is  avenged  at  last. 

PART  III. 

She  struck  but  once,  no  need  hath  lightning  stroke 
For  second  blow  to  rend  the  heart  of  oak, 
Nor  waited  there  to  see  how  Gray  Cloud  died  ; 
Her  fury  all  in  that  fierce  outburst  spent, 
As  from  a  charnel  cave  she  fled  the  tent ; 
The  wolfish  dog  suspiciously  outside 
Sniffed  at  her  moccasins  but  let  her  pass. 
Her  tipi  soon  she  reached,  distant  no  more 
Than  arrow  from  a  warrior's  bowstring  sent, 
Paused  but  to  wipe  her  knife  upon  the  grass, 
And  found  her  usual  couch  upon  the  floor. 
But  not  to  sleep  ;  she  closed  her  eyes  in  vain, 
Shutting  away  the  moonlight  from  her  view  ; 
Darkness  and  moonlight  wore  the  same  dread 

hue, 

Flooding  the  universe  with  crimson  stain. 
She  clasped  her  bosom  with  her  hands  to  still 
The  throbbing  of  her  heart  that  seemed  to  fill 
With  tell-tale  echoes  all  the  air  ;  an  owl 
The  secret  with  unearthly  shrieks  confessed, 
And  Gray  Cloud's  dog  sent  forth  a  doleful  howl 
At  intervals  ;  but  worse  than  all  the  rest, 
That  dreadful  drum  still  beating  in  her  breast, 
As  furious  war-drums  in  the  scalp-dance  beat 
To  the  mad  circling  of  delirious  feet. 


34  WINONA. 

Early  next  morning,  as  the  first  faint  rays 
Of  sunlight  through  the  rustling  lindens  played, 
Two  children  sent  to  seek  the  conjurer's  aid, 
Gazed  on  the  sight,  with  horror  and  amaze, 
Of  Gray  Cloud's  lifeless  body  rolled  in  blood. 
Fast  through  the  village  spread  the  news,  and 

stirred 

With  mingled  fear  and  wonder  all  who  heard. 
The  oracles  were  baffled  and  dismayed, 
And  spoke  with  muffled  tones  and  looks  of  dread  : 
"  Some  envious  foeman  lurking  in  the  wood, 
With  medicine  more  strong  than  his, ' '  they  said, 
"  Stole  in  last  night  and  gave  the  fatal  wound." 
The  warriors  scoured  the  country  miles  around, 
Seeking  for  sign  or  trail,  but  naught  they  found  : 
The  murderer  left  behind  no  clue  or  trace 
More  than  a  vampire's  flight   through  darkling 

space. 

The  Raven  with  a  stoic  calmness  heard 

Of  Gray  Cloud's  death,  nor  showed  by  look  or 

word 

The  wrath  that  to  its  depth  his  being  stirred. 
Winona  heard  the  news  with  false  surprise, 
As  if  just  roused  from  sleep  she  rubbed  her  eyes  ; 
When  she  arose  her  knees  like  aspens  shook, 
But  this  she  quelled  and  forced  a  tranquil  look 
To  feign  the  calmness  that  her  soul  forsook. 
And  when  the  mourning  wail  rose  on  the  air, 
Winona' s  voice  was  heard  commingling  there. 


WINONA.  35 

She  gathered  with  the  other  maidens  where, 
On  a  rude  bier,  the  conjurer's  body  lay 
Adorned  and  decked  in  funeral  array. 
She  flung  a  handful  of  her  sable  hair, 
And  wept  such  tears  above  the  painted  clay  1 
As  weeps  a  youthful  widow,  only  heir, 
Over  the  coffin  of  a  millionaire. 

Moons  waxed  to  fulness  and  to  sickles  waned. 
The  gossips  still  conversed  with  bated  breath. 
The  appalling  mystery  of  Gray  Cloud's  death, 
Wrapped  in  impenetrable  gloom,  remained 
A  blighting  shadow  o'er  the  village  spread. 
But  youthful  spirits  are  invincible, 
Nor  fear  nor  superstition  long  can  quell 
The  bubbling  flow  of  that  perennial  well ; 
And  so  the  youths  and  maidens  soon  regained 
The  wonted  gayety  that  late  had  fled. 
All  save  Winona,  in  whose  face  and  mien, 
Unto  the  careless  eye,  no  change  was  seen  ; 
But  one  that  noted  might  sometimes  espy 
A  furtive  fear  that  shot  across  her  eye, 
As  in  a  forest,  'thwart  some  bit  of  blue, 
Darts  a  rare  bird  that  shuns  the  hunter's  view. 
Her  laugh,   though   gay,   a  subtle  change  con 
fessed, 
And  in  her  attitude  a  vague  unrest 

1  The  Indians  paint  and  adorn  a  body  before  sepulture. 


36  WIN  ON  A. 

Betrayed  a  world  of  feelings  unexprest. 
A  shade  less  light  her  footsteps  in  the  dance, 
And  sometimes  now  the  Raven's  curious  glance 
Her  soul  with  terrors  new  and  strange  oppressed. 

Grief  shared  is  lighter,  none  had  she  to  share 
Burdens  that  grew  almost  too  great  to  bear, 
For  Redstar  sometimes  seemed  to  look  askance, 
And  sought,  they  said,  to  win  another  breast. 
Winona  feigned  to  laugh,  but  in  her  heart 
The  rumor  rankled  like  a  poisoned  dart. 
Sometimes  she  almost  thought  the  Raven  guessed 
The  guilty  secrets  that  her  thoughts  oppressed, 
And  sought,  whene'er  she  could,  to  shun  his  sight. 
Apart  from  human  kind,  still  more  and  more, 
The  Raven  dwelt,  and  human  speech  forbore. 
And  once  upon  a  wild  tempestuous  night, 
When  all  the  demons  of  the  earth  and  air 
I/ike  raging  furies  were  embattled  there, 
She,  peering  fearfully,  amid  the  swarm 
Flitting  athwart  the  flashes  of  the  storm, 
By  fitful  gleams  beheld  the  Raven's  form. 
To  her  he  spoke  not  since  the  fateful  night 
His  chosen  comrade  passed  from  human  sight, 
Save  only  once,  forgetting  he  was  by 
And  half  forgetting  too  her  cares  and  woes, 
Unto  her  lips  some  idle  jest  arose. 
"  Winona,"  said  the  Raven,  in  a  tone 
Of  stern  reproof  that  on  the  instant  froze 


WINONA,  37 

All  thought  of  mirth,  and  when  she  met  his  eye, 
As  by  a  serpent's  charm  it  fixed  her  own  ; 
The  hate  and  anger  of  a  soul  intense 
Were  all  compressed  in  that  remorseless  glance, 
The  coldly  cruel  meaning  of  whose  sense 
Smote  down  the  shield  of  her  false  innocence. 
She  strove  to  wrest  her  eye  from  his  in  vain, 
Held  by  that  gaze  ophidian  like  a  bird, 
As  in  a  trance  she  neither  breathed  nor  stirred. 
And  gazing  thus  an  icy  little  lance, 
Smaller  than  quill  from  wing  of  humming-bird, 
Shot  from  his  eyes,  and  a  keen  stinging  pain 
Sped  through  the  open  windows  of  her  brain. 
Her  senses  failed,  she  sank  upon  the  ground, 
And  darkness  veiled  her  eyes  ;  she  never  knew 
How  long  this  was,  but  when  she  slowly  grew 
Back  from  death's  counterfeit,  and  looked  around, 
So  little  change  was  there,  that  it  might  seem 
The  scene  had  been  but  a  disordered  dream. 
The  Raven  sat  in  his  accustomed  place, 
Smoking  his  solitary  pipe ;  his  face, 
A  gloomy  mask  that  none  might  penetrate, 
Betrayed  no  sign  of  anger,  grief,  or  hate  ; 
Absorbed  so  deep  in  thoughts  that  none  might 

share, 

He  noted  not  Winona's  presence  there  ; 
From  his  disdainful  lips  the  thin  blue  smoke 
From  time  to  time  in  little  spirals  broke, 
Floating  like  languid  sneers  upon  the  air, 


38  WINONA. 

And  settling  round  him  in  a  veil  of  blue 

So  sinister  to  her  disordered  view, 

That  she  arose  and  quickly  stole  away. 

She  shunned  him  more  than  ever  from  that  day, 

And  never  more  unmoved  could  she  behold 

That  countenance  inscrutable  and  cold. 

But  Hope  and  L,ove,  like  Indian  summer's  glow, 
Gilding  the  prairies  ere  December's  snow, 
lyit  with  a  transient  beam  Winona's  eye. 
The  season  for  the  Maidens'  Dance  drew  nigh, 
And  Redstar  vowed,  whatever  might  betide, 
To  claim  her  on  the  morrow  as  his  bride. 
What  now  to  her  was  all  the  world  beside  ? 
The  evil  omens  darkening  all  her  sky, 
Malicious  sneers,  her  rival's  envious  eye, 
While  her  false  lover  lingered  at  her  side, 
All  passed  like  thistle-down  unheeded  by. 

The  evening  for  the  dance  arrived  at  last ; 
An  ancient  crier  through  the  village  passed, 
And  summoned  all  the  maidens  to  repair 
To  the  appointed  place,  a  greensward  where, 
Since  last  year  unprofaned  by  human  feet, 
Rustled  the  prairie  grass  and  flowers  sweet. 
None  but  the  true  and  pure  might  enter  there — 
Maidens  whose  souls  unspotted  had  been  kept. 
At  set  of  sun  the  circle  there  was  formed, 
And  thitherward  the  happy  maidens  swarmed. 


WINONA.  39 

The  people  gathered  round  to  view  the  scene  : 
Old  men  in  broidered  robes  that  trailing  swept, 
And  youths  in  all  their  finery  arrayed, 
Dotting  like  tropic  birds  the  prairie  green, 
Their  rival  graces  to  the  throng  displayed. 
Winona  came  the  last,  but  as  she  stept 
Into  the  mystic  ring  one  word,  <c  Beware  !  " 
Rang  out  in  such  a  tone  of  high  command 
That  all  was  still,  and  every  look  was  turned 
To  where  the  Raven  stood  ;  his  stern  eye  burned, 
And  like  a  flower  beneath  that  withering  glare 
She  faded  fast.    No  need  that  heavy  hand 
To  lead  Winona  from  the  joyous  band  ; 
No  need  those  shameful  words  that  stained  the  air : 
"  L<et  not  the  sacred  circle  be  defiled 
By  one  who,  all  too  easily  beguiled, 
Beneath  her  bosom  bears  a  warrior's  child/' 

Winona  swiftly  fleeing,  as  she  passed, 
One  look  upon  her  shrinking  lover  cast 
That  scared  his  coward  heart  for  many  a  day, 
Into  the  deepest  woods  she  took  her  way. 
The  dance  was  soon  resumed,  and  as  she  fled, 
Like  hollow  laughter  chasing  overhead, 
Pursued  the  music  and  the  maidens'  song. 
Just  as  she  passed  from  sight  an  angry  eye 
Glared  for  a  moment  from  the  western  sky, 
And  flung  one  quivering  shaft  of  dazzling  white, 
With  tenfold  thunder-peal,  adown  the  night. 


40  WIN  ON  A. 

Her  mother  followed  her,  and  sought  her  long, 
Calling  and  listening  through  the  falling  dew, 
While  fast  and  furious  still  the  cadence  grew 
Of  the  gay  dance,  whose  distant  music  fell, 
Smiting  the  mother  like  a  funeral  knell. 
High  rode  the  sun  in  heaven  next  day  before 
The  stricken  mother  found  along  the  shore 
The  object  of  her  unremitting  quest. 
The  cooling  wave  whereon  she  lay  at  rest 
Had  stilled  the  tumult  of  Winona's  breast. 
Along  that  shapely  ruin's  plastic  grace, 
And  in  the  parting  of  her  braided  hair, 
The  hopeless  mother's  glances  searching  there 
The  Thunder-Bird's  mysterious  mark  might  trace. 

So  died  Winona,  and  let  all  beware, 
For  vengeance  follows  fast  and  will  not  spare, 
Nor  maid,  nor  warrior  that  dares  offend 
Who  hath  the  cruel  Thunder-Bird  for  friend. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


TO  A  YOUNG   MAN. 

ARKSS  thy  pleasures  with  a  reverent  touch, 
Too  soon  at  best  their  early  fragrance  flees. 
Seek  not  to  know,  to  see,  or  taste  too  much  : 

The  sweetest,  deepest  cup  hath  still  its  lees  ; 
The  blushing  grape  is  not  too  rudely  pressed, 
When  gushes  forth  its  richest  and  its  best. 

Bird,  bubble,  butterfly  on  light  wing  straying, 
With  changing  tints  of  crimson,  blue,  and  gold, 

Upon  warm  waves  of  summer  sunlight  swaying, 
When  thy  frail,  flaming  wing  the  boy  shall  hold, 

Alas,  how  soon  its  fragile  charms  expire  ! 

E'en  so  when  strong  men  seize  their  soul's  desire. 

Rend  not  with  ruthless  hand  the  lily's  bell, 
To  gather  all  its  sweetness  at  a  breath  ; 

Spill  not  the  pearl  deep  in  its  bosom's  cell, 
The  crystal  gift  Aurora's  tears  bequeath. 

So  shall  a  delicate  perfume  be  thine, 

Through  all  the  weary  hours  of  day's  decline. 
43 


44  TO  A    YOUNG  MAN. 

The  gentlest  spirits  of  the  earth  and  air — 
Sweet  mysteries  to  ruder  men  unknown — 

Will  yield  delights  as  delicate  as  rare, 

The  secret  bowers  of  I^ove  shall  be  thy  own, 

The  one  great  bliss,  so  long  thy  hope's  despair, 

Will  press  with  eager  feet  to  find  thee  there. 


TEU/  ME,  DEAR  BIRD. 

TN  the  warm   twilight  where   I   mused,   there 

came 
A  bird  of  unknown  race  with  breast  of  flame. 

Tell  me,  dear  bird,  O  bird  with  breast  of  flame, 
I  conjure  thee,  e'en  by  his  sacred  name, 
How  may  I  lure  and  win  I/)ve  to  my  side  ? 
There  is  no  lure  for  L,ove,  in  patience  bide, 
And  if  he  cometh  not  await  him  still, 
I/)ve  cometh  only  when  and  where  he  will. 

But  when  he  cometh,  bird  with  breast  of  flame, 
Teach  me  his  roving  feet  to  bind  and  tame. 
Many  have  sought  to  bind  him,  but  in  vain ; 
He  will  not  brook  nor  gold  nor  silken  chain. 
If  he  is  caught,  L,ove  languishes  and  dies, 
And  't  is  not  L,ove,  if  free  to  stay,  he  flies. 

Tell  me,  dear  bird,  O  bird  with  breast  of  flame, 
When  true  L,ove  comes,  how  may  I  know  his 

name? 

What  are  the  golden  words  upon  his  tongue  : 
What  message  sweeter  than  a  seraph's  song  ? 

45 


46  TELL  ME,   DEAR  BIRD. 

I^ove  hath  no  shibboleth,  and  where  are  words 
For  the  enraptured  songs  of  summer  birds  ? 

Tell  me,  dear  I^ove,  O  bird  with  breast  of  flame, 
The  deepest  sense  and  meaning  of  thy  name  ? 
Two  all-sufficing  souls  for  woe  or  bliss, 
But  what  they  do,  or  what  their  converse  is, 
Love  only  knows ;  they  walk  where  none  may  see, 
Wrapped  in  the  shades  of  a  sweet  mystery. 


PERDITA. 

away  under  Hesper, 
In  seas  never  crossed, 
a  faint-uttered  whisper, 

Forgotten  and  lost ; 
Where  no  sail  ever  flies 

O'er  the  face  of  the  deep, 
A  lost  island  lies 

Forgotten,  asleep. 
An  island  reposes, 

Distant  and  dim, 
Where  a  cloud- veil  of  roses 
Never  uncloses, 
Dreams  and  reposes 

On  the  horizon's  rim. 
An  island  arrayed 

In  such  magical  grace, 
It  would  seem  to  be  made 

For  some  happier  race. 
Bach  valley  and  bower 

Has  a  charm  of  its  own  ; 
A  perfume  each  flower, 

Elsewhere  unknown  ; 

47 


48  PERDITA. 


A  charm  of  such  power 

That  once  known  to  the  heart, 
If  but  for  an  hour, 

It  can  never  depart. 
K'en  the  surges  of  ocean, 

Ceasing  their  roar, 
Their  rage  and  commotion, 

Sigh  in  on  the  shore 
With  a  melody  saintly, 

As  vespers  that  seem 
Chanted  so  quaintly, 
By  sisters  so  saintly, 
Mingling  so  faintly 

With  the  voice  of  a  dream. 

One  summer  time  olden, 

That  standeth  alone 
With  its  memories  golden, 

That  isle  was  my  own. 
O  island  enchanted  ! 

Where  now  does  she  rove — 
The  bright  nymph  that  haunted 

Thy  fountain  and  grove, 
While  still  at  her  side, 

Whereever  she  strayed, 
By  the  mountain  or  tide, 

My  footsteps  were  stayed  ? 
Do  her  pulses  still  beat 

To  the  pulses  of  yore  ? 


PERDITA.  49 

Say,  now,  do  her  feet 

Tread  some  pitiless  shore, 
Still  hoping  to  meet 

One  who  cometh  no  more  ? 

O  that  summer  !  its  ray 
In  my  heart  lingers  yet, 

Long  after  the  day- 

Star  it  came  from  has  set. 

My  star  of  the  night 
And  of  morning  was  she, 

My  song-bird,  my  white- 
Winged  .bark  on  the  sea  ; 

My  rainbow,  illuming 
With  beauty  and  light ; 

My  rose-garden,  blooming, 

Sweetly  perfuming 

The  hours  of  the  night. 

But  at  last,  in  its  fleetness, 

It  seemed  that  each  day 
From  the  charm  and  the  sweetness 

Took  something  away, 
Till  the  flowers  all  faded 

From  summer's  bright  crown, 
The  skies  were  o'ershadowed, 

The  forests  were  brown. 
In  the  voices  of  morning 

There  crept  a  new  tone, 


5O  PERDITA. 

A  faint  whispered  warning 

From  regions  unknown, 
And  over  each  heart 

Stole  a  mystical  fear 
That  our  joy  would  depart 

With  the  flight  of  the  year. 
A  pale,  cold,  new-comer 

Had  entered  our  isle, 
From  a  land  beyond  summer 

And  sunshine  and  smile, 
Subduing  us  quite, 

Though  we  saw  not  his  face, 
As  winter  gives  blight 

When  it  cometh  apace. 
Her  glances  and  mine 

Sought  each  other  no  more, 
Bach  fearing  some  sign 

Not  seen  there  before. 
Yet  no  word  was  revealing 

Misgiving  or  chill ; 
Each  sought  for  concealing 
The  deathly,  congealing 

Foreboding  of  ill. 

But  at  last  came  a  night 
When  our  last  song  was  sung, 

And  like  children  in  fright 
Together  we  clung. 

No  farewell  was  spoken, 


PERDITA.  51 

Our  voices  were  dumb, 
But  we  knew  without  token 

That  parting  was  come. 
In  the  darkness  that  bound  us 

A  night-bird  did  sing, 
And  the  black  air  around  us 

Was  moved  by  his  wing, 
As  in  vulture  waves  sweeping 

He  sped  from  the  shore, 
And  away  from  my  keeping 

My  Day-star  he  tore. 


STANZAS  TO 


bewailing 

Sweet  Life's  sad  failing 
Is  unavailing 

Your  prayers  or  mine. 
Years  onward  sweeping 
Bring  blight  for  reaping, 
For  laughter  weeping, 
Wormwood  for  wine. 

The  old  sweet  vision 
Comes  to  derision 
The  dream  Klysian 

That  once  was  ours. 
The  rushing  river 
Mocks  our  endeavor, 
And  soon  will  sever 

My  bark  from  yours. 

One  joy  shall  bide  me 
Whatever  betide  me, 
This  still  shall  guide  me 

Till  life  shall  fleet  ; 
Though  friends  forsake  me, 
Fate  rudely  shake  me, 
52 


STANZAS  TO .  53 

And  Time  shall  break  me 
Beneath  his  feet, 

No  power  above  me 
From  -this  can  move  me — 
My  Queen  did  love  me  ! 

One  golden  day 
Her  proud  heart  found  me, 
Her  arms  were  around  me, 
Her  red  lips  crowned  me 

A  King  for  aye. 

O  rapturous  meeting  J 
Thy  passionate  greeting 
Was  the  high  beating 

Of  a  young  soul, 
For  one  full  yearning, 
Hour  spurning, 
The  fetters  burning 

Of  Fate's  control. 

The  chilling  power 
Of  rank  and  dower 
That  sacred  hour 

Soon  overcast, 
And  from  our  faces 
Swept  the  faint  traces 
Of  those  embraces, 

The  first  and  last. 


54  STANZAS  TO 

She  may  recover, 
When  days  are  over, 
Some  happier  lover, 

Forsaking  me. 
I,  e'en  though  hated, 
Am  consecrated  ; 
More  meanly  mated 

Can  never  be. 


new  flames  redden 
Where  light  loves  deaden, 
Let  pulses  leaden 

Leap  forth  anew  ; 
But  on  this  altar 
Till  breath  shall  falter, 
Though  all  else  alter, 

Nought  shall  renew. 


LOVE'S  TRIBUTES. 

OTHAT  I  might  inspire  my  song  with  power 
To  crown  thy  brows  with  more  than  queenly 

dower  ; 

To  pour  on  thee  a  more  than  golden  shower, 
And  fill  thy  soul  with  sunshine  every  hour. 

Time  breaks  at  last  the  lyre's  sweetest  strings, 
And  palls  the  sweetest  note  the  minstrel  sings, 
And  riches  fly  away  on  falcon  wings : 
I/)ve  only  to  his  trust  unchanging  clings. 

Then  be  my  song  of  whatsoe'er  degree, 
And  gifts  however  bright  and  fair  to  see, 
Rare  trophies  peril  won  by  land  and  sea, 
Yet  L,ove  his  own  chief  offering  must  be. 

All  that  the  flower  of  I^ove  may  yield  is  thine, 
From  blushing  bud  to  clusters  on  the  vine, 
With  colors  rich  as  rubies  from  the  mine, 
And  odors  mounting  to  the  soul  like  wine. 

55 


56  LOVE'S  TRIBUTES. 

But  all,  I  know,  is  paltry  in  thine  eyes, 
So  far  above  them  all  thy  worth  doth  rise. 
In  vain  my  muse  with  feeble  pinions  tries 
To  reach  the  regions  where  thy  merit  lies. 

Still  o'er  lyove's  treasures  hold  thy  sovereign 

sway  ; 

Taste  them  or  spill  them,  keep  or  cast  away  ; 
By  night  or  daytime,  hasten  or  delay, 
Trample  them,  cull  them,  go  thine  own  sweet 

way. 


THE  LITTLE  SHEPHERDESS. 

PASTOREU,E. 

T   ITTLE  lamb,  I  pray  O  come  to  me, 

*-'     None  to  caress  and  love  have  I  but  thee. 

Why  art  thou  not  some  tender  shepherd  swain, 

Then  loving  thee  would  ease  my  weary  pain. 

My  sister  Susan,  she  is  fair  and  tall, 

And  she  may  choose  among  the  shepherds  all, 

And  she  is  called  sweet  names — my  dear,  my  pet ; 

Ah  me  !  I  'm  brown,  and  I  'm  too  little  yet. 

Then  stepping  forth  from  a  concealing  shade, 
A  youth  beyond  compare  approached  the  maid, 
And,  whisp'ring  softly  in  her  startled  ear, 
She  heard  the  tender  words,  * '  My  pet,  my  dear. ' ' 
She  blushing  stood,  confused  with  downcast  eyes, 
But  heart  and  face  were  filled  with  glad  surprise  ; 
And  happier  far  than  Susan  tall  and  fair, 
The  little  nut-brown  maiden  trembling  there. 


57 


A  FAREWELL. 

>rF  IS  true  that  once  I  sighed  for 

*      That  tender  heart  of  thine  ; 
I  thought  I  could  have  died  for 

The  bliss  I  now  decline. 
Too  many  swains  enchanted, 

Since  then  within  that  heart, 
Have  had  sweet  shelter  granted 

For  me  to  claim  a  part. 

Farewell,  dear  one,  thy  sorrow, 

Thy  tears  are  all  in  vain  ; 
That  tender  heart  to-morrow 

Will  find  some  newer  swain. 
Thou  hast  no  necromancy 

To  restore  the  passing  sway, 
Of  what  was  but  the  fancy 

Of  an  idle  summer  day. 


TO  A  FICKLE  FAIR  ONE. 

OME  birds  mate  three  times  in  a  year, 
And  I  have  called  thee  oft  my  bird. 
I  knew  not  even  shame  and  fear 

Could  bind  thee  long  ;   take  my  last  word, 
Good-bye,  sweet  bird. 


TO  THE  SAME. 

ONSTANCY  and  the  Phcenix,birds  that  dwell 
In  the  bright  realms  of  song,  happy  his  fate 
Who  elsewhere  meets  with  one,  for,  mark  it  well, 
Sooner  or  later  he  will  find  its  mate. 


THE  PALACE  OF  REPOSE. 


we  start  before  the  break  of  day, 
•*•  *•    And  grope  along  an  unknown  path  our  way, 
Or  follow  leaders  blind,  and  many  fall  ; 
But  on  we  press,  heedless  and  joyous  all, 
As  happy  fledglings  fluttering  in  the  brake, 
That  nothing  reck  of  prowling  fox  or  snake. 
When  over  us  at  last  the  daylight  dawns, 
We  bear  the  marks  of  many  cruel  thorns  ; 
But  brightly  on  the  far  horizon  gleams 
(Of  more  than  earthly  grace  the  vision  seems) 
The  Palace  of  Repose,  that  rears  on  high 
Its  golden  domes  against  the  western  sky, 
While  warm  and  tender  as  a  poet's  dreams, 
The  restful  radiance  from  each  tower  that  streams. 

Now  through  the  early  morning  air  we  fly, 
As  the  young  shepherd  sped  with  beaming  eye 
Fast  fixed  upon  the  rose-born  butterfly. 
Toward  flowery  vales  and  hills  our  pathway  leads, 
But  when  we  reach  them  all  their  beauty  fades. 
Hills  that  were  fairer,  ere  their  paths  were  won, 
Than  the  long  slopes  of  fountained  Helicon, 
Are  marred  by  poisonous  weeds  and  flinty  stone  ; 
60 


THE  PALACE   OF  REPOSE.  6 1 

And  forms  that  seemed,  against  the  distant  skies, 
Winging  their  snowy  way  to  Paradise, 
Are  birds  unclean,  whose  wings  are  like  a  breath 
From  some  great  charnel-house  in  lands  of  death. 
And  shifting  sands  beneath  our  feet  are  spread, 
And  pitfalls  numberless  beset  our  way, 
Where  noisome  reptiles  fill  us  with  dismay  ; 
On  either  side  lie,  fathomless  and  dim, 
Wide  plains  where  wander  phantoms  stark  and 
grim. 

Noon  comes  ;  the  goal  no  nearer,  on  we  haste, 
Nor  note  the  lengthening  shadows  of  the  past. 
Luring  us  on  we  hear  the  far,  faint  moan 
Of  music,  weird  and  sweet  as  Memnon's  tone, 
Heard  in  the  desert  by  the  traveller  lone  ; 
Bewildering  as  the  sounds  the  shepherds  erst 
Heard  in  the  vales  of  Thessaly,  when  first 
Apollo's  wondrous  music  on  them  burst. 
Of  all  that  started  with  us,  hand  in  hand, 
Only  a  few  are  left,  a  dwindling  band. 
With  haggard  faces  fixed  upon  the  goal, 
E'en  as  the  needle  to  the  steadfast  pole, 
Swifter  and  swifter,  till  the  evening  air 
Sings  like  a  serpent  through  our  back-blown  hair. 
But  lo,  the  night  has  come, 

The  sun  goes  down, 

His  trailing  robes  with  crimson  glories  crown 
The  palace  we  had  almost  deemed  was  ours. 


62  THE  PALACE   OF  REPOSE. 

Dearer  than  ever  seem  those  fading  towers, 
Whose  oriel  windows  gleam  like  soul-lit  eyes 
For  one  bright  moment  ere  thick  darkness  lies 
On  earth  and  sky,  then  trembling,  faint,  and  sore, 
Closing  our  pathway,  lo,  we  find  a  door, 
The  entrance  to  a  narrow  house  that  still 
Blocks  up  the  way  of  every  human  will. 
Wander  where'er  we  may,  this  self-same  goal 
Is  reached  at  last  by  every  weary  soul. 
Our  burdens  fall  unheeded,  and  our  gains, — 
This  is  the  end  of  all  our  toil  and  pains. 

Over  the  threshold  hangs  a  shrunken  lute, 

Upon  a  tree  where  grows  nor  flower  nor  fruit ; 

Bewildering  odors  fill  the  heavy  air, 

The  nightshade  and  the  wolf  s-bane  mingle  there ; 

The  faint  perfume  of  rose  and  lily,  too, 

Is  swallowed  up  by  asphodel  and  rue. 

We  enter  in,  behold,  a  lowly  bed, 

How  sweet  the  poppied  perfume  o'er  it  shed, 

Where  the  red  poppy  swings  its  censer  head. 

There  sleep  shall  seize  and  bind  us,  sleep  su 
preme, 

That  knows  no  waking  morn,  no  troubled  dream. 
The  years  shall  swiftly  cover  us  from  sight, 
In  silence  and  insuperable  night. 


MOODS. 

MY  wayward  youth  had  drained  the  cup  of 
Life, 

Wasting  its  treasures  in  the  fitful  strife, 
The  mad  revolt  of  a  rebellious  soul, 
That  beats  the  stubborn  bars  of  Fate's  control. 
My  foolish  heart  whispered,  there  is  no  God, 
And  if  there  is,  let  cravens  fear  his  rod  : 
Be  thy  own  god,  slake  thy  imperious  thirst 
Where'er  thou  wilt,  no  fountain  is  accurst. 
Many  strange  paths  my  restless  feet  had  sought, 
Not  all  ignoble,  but  to  each  I  brought 
The  turbulence  of  will  that  grasps  at  all, 
And,  failing,  breaks  itself  against  the  wall. 
Too  late  I  knew  my  impotence  at  last, 
When  the  bright  glow  of  youth  was  overpast. 

Worn  out,  exhausted  by  the  weary  route 
That  leads  from  knowledge  to  disgust  and  doubt, 
Defeat,  deceit,  and  baffled  purpose  stole 
I^ike  a  corroding  canker  to  my  soul. 
I  hated  I/ife,  scorned  and  despised  my  kind, 
So  far  astray  may  err  the  unbridled  mind. 
63 


64  MOODS. 

I  had  been  nigh  to  death  ;  the  sullen  wave 
Already  my  consenting  feet  did  lave, 
When  one  who  thought  to  be  my  friend,  and  fain 
Had  done  me  kindness,  plucked  me  back  again. 
They  said  my  reason  wandered,  and  had  found 
A  peaceful  nook  remote  from  sight  or  sound 
Of  busy  men  ;  there  by  the  moonlit  sea 
On  a  soft  couch  I  lay,  where  over  me 
Through  the  low  lattice  the  sea  odors  crept, 
And  from  the  landward  side  about  me  swept 
Soft  languid  waves  of  amorous  perfume, 
Of  pollen-dust,  of  bursting  bud  and  bloom. 

Wrecked  by  the  storm  of  life,  and  cast  aside 
Like  drift  rejected  by  the  loathing  tide, 
Vacant  of  heart  and  thought  I  lay  ;  the  air 
That  wooed  my  cheek  and  gently  stirred  my  hair, 
leaden  with  yearning  voices  of  the  spring, 
Awoke  in  me  no  answering  tone  or  string. 

From  the  deep  shadows  of  the  sleeping  wood 
A  baleful  night-bird  swept  the  solitude  ; 
The  shuddering  moonlight  like  a  living  thing 
Shrank  from  the  touch  of  his  defiling  wing  ; 
And  fiercely  following  like  an  eager  pack 
Of  winged  hounds  upon  his  lurid  track, 
Lewd  mocking  spirits  filled  the  thickening  air, 
Swarming  as  to  a  charnel  banquet  there. 
Close  at  my  ear  burst  forth  a  piercing  yell, 


MOODS.  65 

As  if  each  ghoul  and  fiend  from  nether  hell 

Had  burst  its  bonds,  and  joined  that  chorus  fell  ; 

My  quivering  veins  and  nerves  to  frenzy  stung, 

In  discord  jangled  like  a  harp  unstrung. 

Suddenly  at  my  heart  a  quick  sharp  pluck, 

As  't  were  some  foot  of  small  fierce  bird  had  struck 

And  griped  me  sore  ;  then  after  some  short  space 

The  keen  pain  seized  me  in  another  place  ; 

I  felt  myself  clasped  in  a  rude  embrace, 

And  o'er  my  body  spread  swift  fleeting  pangs, 

Sickening  and  deadly  as  a  serpent's  fangs. 

Quivering  in  every  limb  then  I  was  'ware 

Of  a  strange  woman  bending  o'er  me  there, 

With  ashen  hair,  that  in  the  moonlight  pale 

Rippled  about  her  shoulders  like  a  veil  ; 

In  her  cold  eyes  that  pierced  me  through  and 

through, 

There  dimly  lurked  a  look  that  once  I  knew. 
Her  face  was  bloodless,  as  of  one  that 's  dead, 
But  oh  !  her  little  mouth,  how  rosy  red, 
Beset  with  glittering  little  fangs  that  bled, 
Fresh  from  the  cruel  feast  whereon  they  fed. 
Cold  was  her  bosom,  and  her  clammy  arms — 
No  ruddy  current  warmed  those  shapely  charms. 
The  air  grew  stifling,  and  upon  my  ear 
Fell  strident  whispers  chilling  me  with  fear. 

' '  Dost  thou  not  know  my  face  ?  in  my  close  kiss 
Lingers  no  essence  of  the  olden  bliss  ? 

5 


66  MOODS. 

Doth  not  my  breath  revive  the  ancient  fire, 

And  fill  the  shrunken  veins  of  dead  desire  ? 

I  am  the  child  of  all  thy  joys  ;  ere  Death 

Swallowed  them  up  each  left  with  me  some  breath, 

Some  drop  of  blood,  some  accent,  or  some  look, 

A  token  from  each  fleeting  hour  I  took  ; 

In  me  thy  vanished  raptures  all  unite 

The  perfect  fruit  of  all  thy  past  delight. 

I/ong  have  I  sought  thee,  now  that  thou  art  found, 

Now  that  my  limbs  about  thee  have  been  wound, 

And  that  my  lips  have  fed  upon  thy  face, 

Nothing  shall  tear  thee  more  from  my  embrace  ; 

Dearer  thou  art  to  me  than  all  that  dwell 

In  the  wide  triple  realms,  Earth,  Heaven  and  Hell. 

Thou  art  my  fruitful  vineyard,  and  my  well, 

My  gilded  mountain  top,  and  flowery  dell 

Whereon  my  lips  shall  pasture  all  the  night, 

Vanishing  only  with  the  morning  light. 

For  in  thy  arms  the  olden  joys  I  taste, 

And  round  us  swarm  the  spectres  of  the  past ; 

The  ruddy  light  still  in  their  hollow  eyes 

Lingers  that  shone  upon  our  revelries 

In  gay  L,isboa's  palaces  of  pride, 

When  every  mask  and  cheek  was  flung  aside, 

Virtue  was  mocked,  and  God  and  man  defied. 

"  And  youthful  joys  far  from  L,isboa's  town 
Through  some  green  byway  of  the  years  float 
down  ; 


MOODS.  67 

Over  fair  Lusitania's  hills  and  plains 
Again  we  wander  free  from  sinful  stains  ; 
Though  viewed  through  mist  of  tears,  the  earliest 

scenes 

Are  brightest  still  whatever  intervenes. 
The  leafy  songs  that  thrill  the  listening  wood, 
And  answering  birds  that  make  sweet  interlude, 
The  sylvan  lakes  illuminated  by 
The  rainbows  arching  all  our  summer  sky, 
And  swans  that  drift  along  the  shore  at  rest — 
A  string  of  pearls  upon  a  swelling  breast. ' ' 

Ranging  amid  the  garden  groves  of  youth, 
The  luring  voice  grew  softer,  till  in  sooth 
Ivike  pulsing  of  a  moonlight  lute  it  fell, 
IvUlling  my  senses  with  a  rhythmic  spell. 
I  know  not  if  I  slumbered,  but  anon 
Those  odious  limbs  about  my  own  were  thrown  ; 
I  started  up  with  thick  and  laboring  breath, 
And  sickening  loathing  almost  unto  death  ; 
"  O  Christ  !  "  I  cried,  lo,  at  that  sacred  name 
The  foul  shape  vanished,  and  instead  one  came 
Clad  in  soft  light  as  from  an  inner  flame, 
And  held  an  ebon  cross  whereon  there  bled 
A  great  white  Christ,  with  loving  arms  outspread. 
Singing  afar  a  tender  voice  I  heard, 
Faintly  the  accents  fell,  "  Flee  as  a  bird." 
Then,  as  the  spring- tides  yearning  to  the  moon, 
Flood  the  dry  hollows  where  we  walked  at  noon, 


68  MOODS, 

K'en  so  the  tidal- wave  of  feeling  rose, 
And  memories  wakened  from  their  long  repose, 
And  rushing  back  through  many  a  dusty  year 
I/eft  me  again  a  reverent  child  at  prayer. 

Again  the  simple  worshippers  I  saw 
Kneeling  in  fervent  prayer ;  I  heard  with  awe 
Once  more  the  shameful  tale  recounted  o'er  : 
The  buffets  and  revilings  that  He  bore, 
The  crown  of  thorns,  the  wormwood,  and  the 

gall, 

And  our  foul  sins  more  bitter  than  them  all, 
Filling  the  cup  that  our  vile  hands  have  pressed 
To  the  pure  lips  of  our  expiring  Christ. 
Gazing  upon  the  Saviour's  agony, 
Through  my  dark  soul  a  cleansing  current  swept, 
And  tears  of  humble  penitence  I  wept. 
Softly  I  wept  at  first,  then  gathering  force, 
Burst  forth  a  storm  of  passionate  remorse, 
Till  my  frail  couch  shook  like  an  autumn  leaf 
In  the  tempestuous  torrent  of  my  grief. 
Stretching  my  trembling  hands,  "  O  Christ !  "  I 

cried, 

' '  Would  that  with  thee  I  might  be  crucified, 
So  I  might  share  thy  love.     O  let  me  find 
Some  sure  retreat  remote  from  all  my  kind, 
Far  from  the  voice  of  priest  or  minister, 
Where  reigns  the  silence  of  the  sepulchre  ; 
To  some  far  rocky  island  let  me  flee, 


MOODS.  69 

Piercing  the  bosom  of  an  unknown  sea, 
There  let  me  live  in  sweet  converse  with  thee. 
Or  in  some  Theban  desert,  too  remote 
E'en  for  the  sound  of  Memnon's  warning  note, 
Or  'mid  the  rocks  on  Sinai's  shaking  brow, 
Where  the  fierce  fires  of  God's  anger  glow  ; 
Or  buried  in  some  clammy  convent  cell, 
No  matter  where,  dear  L,ord,  so  I  may  dwell 
Apart  from  all  the  universe  but  thee  ; 
So  that  my  name  may  perish  utterly 
From  memory  of  man  ;  so  that  no  sound 
Of  human  voice  or  footstep  may  resound 
Through  the  deep  portals  of  my  solitude. 
There  let  me  purge  my  sins  with  penance  rude, 
The  scourge,  the  midnight  vigil,  and  the  fast, 
Until  I  know  thee,  face  to  face  at  last." 
How  weak  are  all  this  life's  most  tempting  joys, 
I/)ve,  wealth,  ambition,  transitory  toys, 
To  those  that  flood  the  lonely  anchorite 
In  the  rapt  moments  of  his  soul's  delight. 
The  sweetest  words  of  Jesus  are  not  found 
In  Holy  Writ ;  who  in  his  grace  abound, 
Forsaking  all  the  world  to  bear  his  cross, 
Counting  all  human  love  and  honor  dross  ; 
Who  wears  the  thorny  crown  upon  his  head, 
And  loveth  better  than  his  daily  bread 
The  scourge,  the  iron  chain,  the  stony  bed, 
Worn  out  with  vigils,  spent  with  sighs  and  tears, 
Jesus  perchance  may  whisper  in  his  ears, 


7O  MOODS. 

Sweeter  than  music  of  the  choral  spheres, 
The  unwritten  words  that  soothed  the  Magdalene. 
Perchance  on  Jesus'  bosom  he  may  lean, 
A  deeper  sense  than  language  can  impart 

in  the  throbbing  of  that  wondrous  heart. 


The  moon  went  down,  the  night  grew  dark  and 

dense, 

The  aspiration  of  my  soul  intense 
Took  real  form  and  garb,  or  so  it  seemed, 
And  bore  me  on  to  all  that  I  had  dreamed. 
Into  the  narrow  dungeon  where  I  lay 
The  Saviour  came,  and  gently  put  away 
My  scourging  hand  ;  his  smile  ineffable 
With  more  than  earthly  radiance  lit  my  cell  — 
Sweeter  than  wanton  couch  had  ever  known, 
The  rapture  Jesus  bringeth  to  his  own. 
Naked  and  prone  upon  the  dungeon  stone, 
His  love  suffused  me  with  a  rosy  glow. 
His  words  of  grace  and  pardon,  murmured  low, 
Thrilled  me  and  filled  my  spirit's  pulsing  vein, 
Till  like  a  ship  impatient  for  the  main 
Her  snowy  wings  tugged  at  the  anchor  chain. 

I  slept  profoundly  ;  when  I  woke,  the  sun 
Already  more  than  half  his  course  had  run. 
Height  willing  feet  were  moving  round  my  couch, 
And  gentle  hands  with  ministering  touch. 
They  brought  me  dainties,  and  their  cheerful 
words, 


MOODS.  *Jl 

The  hum  of  honey-bees,  the  voice  of  birds, 
The  grand  old  forest's  potent  influence 
Subdued  and  mingled  with  my  every  sense, 
And  moved  my  being  to  accord  and  tune 
With  all  the  leafy  harmonies  of  June, 
As  if  some  conscious  hand  beneficent 
A  hideous  nightmare  pall  had  from  me  rent. 

I  wandered  out  alone  beneath  the  trees 
And  in  a  tempting  spot  reclined  at  ease, 
My  head  in  the  cool  shade,  and  at  my  feet 
Streaming  the  amber  sunlight's  genial  heat. 
My  spirits  rose,  and  quickening  pulses  beat, 
Surprised  to  find  that  living  still  was  sweet. 
The  tree-tops  o'er  me  seemed  to  melt  away — 
Green  islets  floating  on  an  azure  bay  ; 
And  I  in  fancy  floated  with  them,  too, 
Drifting  forever  down  the  ether  blue. 
Half  dreaming  thus,  so  quietly  I  lay 
The  forest  denizens  resumed  their  play ; 
But  furtively,  as  though  they  feared  to  break 
The  spell  that  brooded  in  the  air,  or  wake 
Some  discord  slumbering  in  the  solitude. 
A  bird  sang  nigh  me,  but  with  voice  subdued  ; 
The  mossy  oaks  like  kingly  graybeards  stood, 
And  stretched  inviting  arms  ;  the  aspens  wooed 
With  myriad  beckoning  leaves,  and  each  slant 

beam, 
Flung  from  the  flying  sun-god's  hand,  did  seem 


72  MOODS. 

A  rosy  finger-tip  that  coyly  pointed 

To  some  deep    trysting-place  by  wood-nymphs 

haunted. 

Long  vistas  led  away  mysteriously, 
So  tempting  that  I  almost  thought  to  see 
Arch  faces  from  the  nearer  branches  peeping, 
And  clumsy  satyrs  in  the  distance  leaping. 

The  nymph,  the  satyr,  and  the  bounding  fawn 
That  filled  the  groves  of  Thessaly  are  gone. 
The  merry  train  that  circled  Oberon 
Trip  it  no  more  upon  the  moonlit  lawn. 
But  let  them  pass  nor  mourn  the  solitude  : 
Far  sweeter  than  the  whole  fantastic  brood 
Is  one  weak,  loving  woman's  human  form. 
A  woman's  voice,  low,  tremulous,  and  warm, 
Hath  a  more  potent  spell  to  lull  the  charm 
Than  Orphean  lute,  or  siren's  song,  where  passed 
The  wave-worn  mariner  lashed  to  his  mast. 

Two  doves  thrust  out  their  small  heads  timidly 
From  the  low  branches  of  a  neighboring  tree, 

askance,  and  peering  through  the  green, 
foolish  lovers  fearing  to  be  seen, 
Then,  reassured,  resumed  their  blissful  play. 
I  smiled  to  see  them,  thinking  of  a  day, 
Just  such  another  day  as  this,  last  year, 
When  with  a  damsel  I  had  wandered  here, 
Amid  these  very  vistas,  and  I  thought 


MOODS,  73 

Of  a  deep  vine-clad  arbor  we  had  sought. 
Our  words,  our  looks,  our  tender  dalliance,  all, 
Like  birds  of  passage  at  the  swallow's  call, 
Came  trooping  back,  on  light  wings  fluttering, 
And  through  me  swept  the  quickening  breath  of 

spring. 

Seen  through  the  shimmering  aspen  leaves  afar 
A  fair  face  twinkled  on  me  like  a  star, 
And  rustle  of  bright  garments  drawing  nigh 
Fluttered  my  heart  with  strange  expectancy. 

And  soon  two  happy  lovers  wandered  far, 
And  tarried  till  the  rising  of  the  evening  star. 


TO 


TIER  heart  is  a  flower  that  long  hath  slept 
*  *     Where  clammy  night-dews  o'er  it  wept, 
But  now  to  love  and  rapture  wakes 
As  the  flushing  glory  of  morning  breaks, 
And  the  heavy  tears  that  chilled  it  so 
Pure  diamonds  all  in  the  sunshine  glow. 

Her  hair  is  a  sea  of  golden  waves 
Love's  beauteous  temple  wall  that  laves, 
Rippling  o'er  two  rosy  shells 
Wherein  the  soul  of  music  dwells, 
To  break  in  hyacinthine  curl 
Caressing  the  base  of  purest  pearl. 

Her  eyes,  twin  mountain  pools  that  lie 

Reflecting  back  the  summer  sky, 

A  fringe  of  graceful  poplars  there 

Sway  softly  in  the  amorous  air. 

Oh  !  he  who  fathoms  those  wondrous  eyes 

Will  see  the  joys  of  Paradise. 

A  crimson  little  rose  her  mouth 
Exhales  the  memories  of  the  South ; 

74 


TO  .  75 

And  when  its  petals  gently  move, 
Breathing  some  tender  word  of  love, 
No  angel's  voice  at  gates  of  bliss 
Hath  promise  to  compare  with  this. 
Her  brow  a  page  of  vellum  fair, 
'T  were  vain  to  seek  for  tracery  there  ; 
Pure  as  Mount  Athos,  yet  I  know 
Beneath  that  alabaster  brow 
One  tender  secret,  guarded  well, 
Stirs  sweetly  in  its  guarded  cell. 


How  many  hundred  hearts  have  beat 
To  the  faint  music  of  her  feet  ; 
What  yearning  eyes  devour  the  grass 
That  ripples  where  her  footsteps  pass, 
Beneath  her  kirtle's  airy  sweep, 
I^ike  moonbeams  glancing  o'er  the  deep. 

A  snowy  miracle  of  grace 
Her  circling  arms,  for  whose  embrace 
Hyperion's  self  might  vainly  sigh. 
Oh  !  if  within  those  arms  to  lie 
To  happy  mortal  e'er  were  given, 
How  tame  were  all  the  joys  of  heaven. 
Sheltered  by  those  endearing  charms 
From  my  own  spirit's  dark  alarms, 
Kndymion  were  not  half  so  blest 
Fainting  upon  his  Phoebe's  breast. 


TO  . 

DEVOLVING  years  another  May-day  bring  ; 
*  ^     Earth  at  this  bridal  season's  glad  return 
Blooms  forth  again  in  bridal  robes  of  spring, 
Expectant,  waiting,  trembling,  all  things  yearn. 
Cries  then  aloud  the  voice  I  thought  was  slain, 
Calls  as  of  yore  my  stormy  deep  to  thine  ; 
Answer  is  mute,  I  hear  no  voice  but  mine. 


TO  THE  SAME. 

O  ARER  and  dearer  seen  through  smiles  or  tears, 
*  ^    Each  day  thy  well-remembered  face  appears, 
Beaming  through  all  the  clouds  and  mists  of  years. 
Enfolding  thee  in  dreams,  my  yearning  kisses 
Cling  to  that  face  till  all  our  perished  blisses 
Come  back  like  phantoms  dear  that  re-awaken, 
And  haste  to  greet  their  loved  ones  long  forsaken. 


TO  THE  SAME. 

RIGHT  gladly   would   I   twine   a   wreath   of 
flowers, 

Each  morn  for  thee  from  dewy  garden  bowers  ; 
But  when  I  cull  them,  lo  !  they  turn  at  view, 
E'en  in  my  hands,  to  nightshade  and  to  rue ; 
Circling,  beloved  one,  thy  temples  rare, 
Catching  the  halo  of  thy  golden  hair, 
Again  they  glow,  roses  and  lilies  there. 
76 


TRANSLATIONS  AND  IMITATIONS 


MY  VBRSBS  HAD  WINGS  UKE>  A  BIRD. 

AFTER   VICTOR    HUGO. 

T  K  my  verses  had  wings  like  a  bird, 
*     To  thy  garden  of  perfume  and  light 
They  would  flutter  with  timid  delight, 
If  my  verses  had  wings  like  a  bird. 

If  my  verses,  like  fairies,  had  wings, 
To  thy  fireside  at  eve  they  would  fly, 
To  sparkle  and  gleam  in  thine  eye, 

If  my  verses,  like  fairies,  had  wings. 

Pure  pinions  around  and  above, 
All  day  would  rustle  and  gleam, 
They  would  whisper  at  night  to  thy  dream, 

If  my  verses  were  winged  like  I^ove. 


79 


'TWIXT  SLKKP  AND  WAKING. 

AFTER  THE  FRENCH  OF  PROSPER  BI,ANCH£MAIN. 

T   YING    alone    last   night,    'twixt    sleep    and 
*-'     waking, 

My  cruel  mistress  passed,  with  queenly  tread, 
With  smile  of  cold  disdain,  and  haughty  head, 
And  scornful  eyes,  whereat  my  heart  was  break 
ing  ; 

The  vision  was  so  true  in  all  its  seeming, 
I  scarcely  could  believe  that  I  was  dreaming. 

But  when  she  came,  and  o'er  me  lowly  bending, 
Upon  me  rained  the  kisses  of  her  mouth, 
leaden  with  all  the  perfume  of  the  South, 
Murmuring  the  while  of  blisses  never  ending, 
And  in  her  eyes  I  saw  the  love-light  gleaming,— 
Ah  !  then  I  knew  that  I  was  only  dreaming. 


So 


WHITK  SWAN  SAILING. 

FROM    THE    RUSSIAN. 

V\7 KITE  swan,  sailing  all  the  day, 

*  *       Peering  in  the  wave  below 
As  them  sailest  proud  and  slow, 
Round  and  round,  and  to  and  fro, 
Seekest  thou  another,  say  ? 
Seest  thou,  in  vaults  below, 
Through  the  wave  inscrutable, 
Joy  of  heaven  or  woe  of  hell  ? 

Cruel  swan,  why  mock  me  so  ? 
Scornful  sailing  to  and  fro, 
Answering  not  my  questionings, 
While  above  thy  snowy  breast 
Rises  haughty  neck  and  crest. 
Sure,  beneath  thy  folded  wings, 
Knowledge  lies  of  many  things — 
Secrets  that  I  long  to  know. 
Voices  of  the  hollow  wave, 
Whispering  as  from  a  grave, 
Murmur  to  thy  listening  ear 
Secrets  that  I  fain  would  hear. 
6  Si 


82  WHITE   SWAN  SAILING. 

IyO,  I  see  another  crest 
Mirrored  in   the  wave  below, 
And  a  bosom  white  as  snow 
Sails  majestical  and  slow, 
Unto  thine  't  is  closely  pressed  ; 
Face  to  face  and  breast  to  breast, 
Two  white  swans  majestic  go 
Round  and  round  and  to  and  fro. 

Peering  through  the  hollow  wave 

As  into  an  open  grave, 

I/o,  I  see  another  there  ; 

Find  the  face  and  form  of  one, 

Thought  of  whom  I  fain  would  shun 

More  than  all  beneath  the  sun  ; 

Find  a  face  already  where 

Time's  inexorable  touch 

I^eaveth  traces  overmuch, 

And  steely  fingers  soon  will  tear, 

Rending  cruel  furrows  there. 

Peering  through  the  hollow  wave, 
Wistfully  as  in  a  grave, 
Could  I  see  another  breast 
As  it  was  in  Long  Ago 
(Or  perhaps  I  dreamed  it  so), 
Where  my  own  might  hope  to  rest ; 
Not  of  mine  the  counterpart, 
But  a  bosom  white  as  snow, 


WHITE   SWAN  SAILING.  83 

Proud,  but  tender,  pressed  to  mine, 
As  thy  double  unto  thine  ; 
Would  the  rapture  slay  me,  say  ? 
Swelling,  welling  from  my  heart, 
Soul  and  body  rend  apart  ? 
Would  the  rapture  slay  me  ?  nay, 
Such  a  death  were  sweeter  bliss 
Than  I  find  in  life  like  this. 


THE  ROSES  OF  SAADI. 

THE    FRENCH    OF    DESBORDES-VAI,MORE. 

AS  I  passed  through  the  Valley  of  Roses  to-day 
I  gathered  the  fairest  and  sweetest  for  thee, 
But  my  robes  were  so  full  that  the  knots  burst 

away, 
And  all  my  sweet  roses  fell  into  the  sea. 

A  wave  slowly  bore  them  away  from  my  sight, 

Flaming  forth  like  a  cloud-billow  rosy  and  red  ; 
But  on  me  you  may  breathe  all  their  fragrance  to 
night, 

For  my  bosom  is  sweet  with  the  odors  they 
shed. 


ROSE-BUDS. 

AFTER  THE   FRENCH   OF   B^RANGER. 

O  TIMID  rose-buds,  why  delay  your  bloom, 
The  frost  of  Time  is  chill  upon  my  hair ; 
Unclose  your  petals,  shed  your  sweet  perfume, 
lyike  vesper  incense  on  the  evening  air. 

Gladden  my  withered  heart  while  yet  you  may, 
A  rock  is  hid  beneath  each  glowing  wave  ; 

The  ardent  sun,  wooing  your  lips  to-day, 

To-morrow's  noon  may  mock  your  poet's  grave. 

And  rose-buds,  ere  their  time  may  pass  away  ; 

The  worm  is   there,   an   envious    wind   may 

blight ; 
How  many  rose-buds  have  I  seen  decay, 

While  thistles  flaunt  their  colors  in  the  light. 

I  pluck  nor  buds,  nor  full-blown  roses  now, 
Your  tender  charms  from  me  have  naught  to 

fear  ; 

No  rosy  wreath  awaits  this  wrinkled  brow, 
I/et  regal  youth  the  crown  and  sceptre  bear. 
85 


86  ROSE-BUDS. 

Weary  of  strife,  of  cold,  vain  theorems, 
Of  counting  spots  upon  the  sun's  fair  face, 

Would  that  a  bed  beneath  your  friendly  stems 
Were  hollowed  for  my  final  resting-place. 

When  the  Great  Reaper  comes,  let  me  be  found 
Among  the  roses,  fresh  and  pure  as  truth  ; 

Their  perfume  shed  above  me  and  around, 

Whispering   my   failing   heart   of   L,ove    and 
Youth. 

O  timid  rose-buds,  why  delay  your  bloom, 
The  frost  of  Time  is  chill  upon  my  hair  ; 
Unclose  your  petals,  shed  your  sweet  perfume 
vesper  incense  on  the  evening  air. 


THE  BIRD  I  WAIT  FOR. 

AFTER  THE  FRENCH  OF  MOREAU. 


buried  suns  of  former  years  arise, 
And  flowers  bloom  I  thought  had  died  last 

spring  ; 

The  birds  that  fled  last  fall  our  wintry  skies 
People  again  the  woods  on  joyous  wing  ; 
At  dawn  soft  rustling  pinions  waken  me, 

And  swallows  darken  window-pane  and  door  ; 
Breathless  I  listen,  gazing  wistfully, 
Alas,  the  bird  I  wait  for  comes  no  more. 

A  high  ambition  swept  my  pulses  through  ; 

Gazing  one  day  upon  the  eagle's  flight, 
I  pierced  with  him  the  heaven's  o'erarching  blue, 

And  beat  my  pinions  at  the  gates  of  light. 
To-day  the  bird  of  Jove  alone  defies 

The  sun-god's  burning  glance,  the  tempest's 

roar  ; 
I  watch  his  flight  unmoved,  with  listless  eyes, 

The  bird  I  fondly  wait  for  comes  no  more. 
87 


88  THE  BIRD  I  WAIT  FOR. 

The  lark  pours  forth  his  liquid  flood  of  song, 

Seeking  the  secret  covert  where  love  lies, 
Wherein  to  weave  a  palace  for  his  young  ; 

He  sings  his  song,  he  loves  his  love  and  dies, 
His  sweet  small  soul  with  his  own  music  thrilled. 

O  mocking  warbler,  cease  the  song  to  pour, 
Of  I^ove  victorious,  fierce  desire  fulfilled, 

The  bird  I  fondly  wait  for  comes  no  more. 

The  martin  hovers  o'er  the  slumbering  bay, 
Deep  mirrored  in  the  blue  abyss  he  lies, 

Now  swiftly  whirls  and  darts  in  idle  play, 
Now  rocked  as  in  a  poet's  reveries. 

O  happy  friend,  follow  thy  fantasy, 
Dream  on  the  wave,  wanton  along  the  shore, 
The  bird  I  fondly  wait  for  comes  no  more. 

Arrive  at  last,  O  messenger  from  heaven, 

Black  envoy,  bearing  in  thy  beak  of  yore 
The  bread  to  famishing  Klijah  given. 

Has  God  for  me  no  portion  I  implore  ? 
It  soon  will  be  too  late,  the  shadows  press, 

And  night-birds  gather  round  my  darkening 

door. 
Dead  with  the  prophet  in  the  wilderness, 

Alas,  the  bird  I  wait  for  comes  no  more. 


VISIONS. 

FROM  THF,  FRENCH   OF  ALFRED   DF,  MUSSST. 


midnight  when  I  was  a  wayward  child, 
I  read  by  stealth  a  romance  weird  and  wild  ; 
My  veins  were  tingling  and  my  cheeks  aflame, 
When  suddenly  before  my  vision  came 
Two  sad  dark  eyes  appealing  wistfully, 
A  child  in  sable  garb  who  looked  like  me. 

A  child  so  like  to  me  in  form  and  face, 
It  seemed  a  mirror  standing  in  the  place. 
He  cast  on  me  one  long  and  earnest  look, 
Then  bent  with  me  o'er  the  forbidden  book. 
A  smile  mysterious  he  wore,  but  never  spoke, 
And  vanished  from  me  as  the  daylight  broke. 

The  years  sped  by  ;  one  dreamy  autumn  day 
The  eager  chase  had  led  me  far  astray  ; 
Fantastic  shadows  thronged  the  solitude 
Of  the  deep  mountain  forest  where  I  stood, 
And  there  appeared  beneath  a  spreading  tree, 
A  wanderer  dressed  in  black,  who  looked  like  me. 

He  held  a  quaint  old  lute  and  a  fresh  spray 
Of  eglantine  ;  I  gently  asked  my  way. 

89 


90  VISIONS. 

He  answered  me  no  word,  but  took  with  pride 
A  path  straight  up  the  towering  mountain  side. 
His  parting  glance  fell  on  me  with  a  thrill 
Of  meaning  so  intense  it  haunts  me  still. 

Another  year  sped  by  ;  one  night  outside 
The  room  wherein  my  sainted  mother  died 
I  stood  alone,  and  friendless  with  my  grief — 
Youth's  crushing  grief  that  hopes  not  for  relief,— 
I  oped  the  door,  lo,  there  on  bended  knee 
An  orphan  dressed  in  black  who  looked  like  me. 

Kneeling  before  the  sacred  ashes  there 

He  seemed  a  radiant  angel  in  despair. 

His  face  was  bathed  in  tears,  his  head  was  crowned 

With  thorns,  his  lute  was  flung  upon  the  ground, 

And  o'er  his  sable  garments  flowed  a  tide 

Of  crimson  from  the  sword  that  pierced  his  side. 

Since  then  in  every  crisis  I  have  known, 
Whether  in  busy  town  or  desert  lone, 
Angel  or  demon,  whichsoe'er  it  be, 
That  sable  apparition  comes  to  me. 
I  never  hear  his  voice,  he  stands  apart, 
Yet  like  a  brother  twines  about  my  heart. 

Now,  all  my  idols  burned  in  civil  strife, 
Willing  to  love  or  re-create  my  life, 
My  feet,  self-exiled  from  their  natal  strand, 
Gather  the  dust  of  many  a  foreign  land  ; 


VISIONS.  91 

A  labyrinthine  maze  I  vainly  grope, 
Seeking  the  faint,  vague  vestige  of  a  hope. 

Still  in  those  moments  when  life's  pulses  go 

Surging  almost  to  fatal  overflow, 

When  the  blind,  fettered  spirit  seems  at  last 

Ready  its  fetters  and  its  scales  to  cast, 

Before  my  vision  comes,  on  land  or  sea, 

A  wanderer,  dressed  in  black,  who  looks  like  me. 


THB  FISHERMAN'S  BRIDAL. 

AFTER 


'T'HK  sea  is  high,  the  night  is  dark, 
*      Sweet  son,  O  why  unmoor  thy  bark 

Before  the  morning  ? 
On  such  a  night  as  this  last  year, 
I  fain  had  kept  thy  brother  here  ; 
O  heed  the  warning. 

But  the  fisherman  smiling 

Bounded  from  shore, 
His  labor  beguiling, 

Bending  the  oar, 
Singing,  she  loveth  me, 

No  fear  I  know, 
No  wave  appalleth  me, 
her  so. 


With  white  wing  cleft  the  inky  sky, 
A  sea-bird  with  a  plaintive  cry, 

Saddening  the  air  : 
The  nest  I  built  with  so  much  toil, 
This  night  became  the  tempest's  spoil  ; 

Beware,  beware  ! 
92 


THE  FISHERMAN'S  BRIDAL.  93 

Still  the  fisherman  smiling, 

Bending  the  oar, 
The  darkness  beguiling, 

Sang  as  before  : 
My  Nanna  calleth  me, 

No  fear  I  know, 
No  wave  appalleth  me, 
her  so. 


Faintly  arose  a  sad  appeal, 

Blent  with  the  storm  by  which  his  keel 

Was  rudely  driven. 
O  brother,  ere  thy  knell  shall  toll, 
Pray  for  thy  elder  brother's  soul, 
Who  died  unshriven. 

But  the  message  unheeded 

Its  warning  bore, 
As  onward  he  speeded, 

Bending  the  oar, 
Murmuring,  she  calleth  me, 

No  fear  I  know, 
No  wave  appalleth  me, 
I^oving  her  so. 

Weary  at  dawn  he  reached  the  strand, 
But  lo,  there  passed  a  mourning  band  ; 

For  whom  ?  he  cried. 
For  whom,  O  fishermen,  that  bell 
That  strikes  upon  my  heart  its  knell  ? 

'T  is  for  thy  bride. 


94  THE  FISHERMAN'S  BRIDAL. 

Then  as  if  on  the  shore, 

Stricken  down  by  a  dart, 
Deep  darkness  came  o'er 

Him,  chilling  his  heart, 
Whispering,  she  calleth  me, 

No  fear  I  know, 
No  wave  appalleth  me, 

I/)ving  her  so. 


YOU  HAD  MY  WHOLK  HKART. 

FROM   THE   FRENCH   OF   DESBORDES   VAI,MORE. 


had  my  whole  heart, 
I  thought  I  had  thine, 
No  beguiling  or  art, 
A  heart  for  a  heart. 

Your  heart  is  returned, 
But  alas  !  where  is  mine  ? 
Your  heart  is  returned, 
But  mine  you  have  spurned. 

The  leaf  and  the  bloom 
And  the  fruit  of  the  same, 
I^eaf,  color,  and  bloom, 
Sweet  flower  and  perfume. 

Oh,  what  hast  thou  done  ? 
My  sovereign  supreme, 
Oh,  what  hast  thou  done  ? 
Beneath  the  fair  sun. 

An  orphan  bereft 
Of  mother  and  home, 
An  orphan  bereft, 
With  my  grief  I  am  left. 

95 


96  YOU  HAD  MY  WHOLE  HEART. 

Deserted,  alone, 

Through  the  cold  world  to  roam, 

Deserted,  alone, 

But  heaven  hears  my  moan. 

One  day  you  will  muse, 
Broken-hearted  and  old, 
One  day  you  will  muse 
On  the  love  you  refuse. 

You  will  seek  me  one  day 
But  you  shall  not  behold  ; 
You  will  call  me  one  day, 
I  shall  not  obey. 

You  will  come  to  my  door 
With  penitent  head, 
A  friend,  as  of  yore, 
You  will  knock  at  my  door. 

It  will  coldly  be  said, 
She  is  gone,  she  is  dead  ; 
Her  spirit  has  fled, 
Will  coldly  be  said. 


ART. 

FROM   THE   FRENCH   OF  TH^OPHILE 

YES,  art  with  grievous  pangs  is  born 
From  Nature's  most  endearing  molds  ; 

The  child  is  torn, 
Not  wooed,  from  fierce  rebellious  folds. 

Slay  not  thy  art  by  false  constraint, 
Yet  know  her  rules  are  stern  as  Fate  ; 

Without  complaint 
The  muse  should  wear  a  buskin  strait. 

Would' st  have  thy  verse  endure,  thy  muse 
The  common  facile  forms  must  shun, 

The  slipshod  shoes 
In  which  so  many  feet  have  run. 

Sculptor,  beware  the  plastic  clay, 
Changing  at  every  whim's  command 

From  day  to  day, 
And  marred  by  every  careless  hand. 

Strive  with  the  marbles  pure  of  Greece, 
Wrested  from  Faros'  snowy  mines, 

Smite,  and  release 
The  deep-imprisoned  god-like  lines. 

7  97 


98  ART. 

The  chisel  of  Praxiteles 

Such  peerless  beauty  had  not  known, 

If  art  in  Greece 
Had  deigned  to  use  a  meaner  stone. 


the  fierce  molten  metal  fuse 
Heroic  forms  and  high  contours 

Of  Syracuse  ; 
Nought  but  the  matchless  bronze  endures. 

Upon  the  agate's  flinty  face 

Apollo's  features  high  and  pure 

In  profile  trace, 
With  touches  delicate  and  sure. 

Beware  of  water  and  pastel, 
Deep  on  fantastic  vase  and  urn 

Thy  colors  frail 
In  seven-fold  heated  furnace  burn. 

Fashion  the  writhing,  maddening  limb 
Of  nymph  and  goddess  ;  bring  once  more 

The  monsters  grim, 
Dear  to  the  blazonry  of  yore. 

The  virgin  mother  saintly  mild, 

Crowned  with  her  nimbus  ;  on  her  breast 

The  wondrous  child, 
The  globe  beneath  the  cross  of  Christ. 


ART,  99 

Crowns  fall  and  sceptres  pass,  robust 
And  radiant  art  outlives  them  all. 

Torso  and  bust 
Survive  the  city's  triple  wall. 

The  medal  by  the  ploughman  found 
Reveals  the  countenance  austere, 

The  temples  crowned, 
That  filled  the  antique  wrorld  with  fear. 

Even  the  gods  wax  old  and  pass 
From  high  Olympus  ;  verse  alone, 

Stronger  than  brass, 
Preserves  to  fallen  Zeus  his  throne. 

The  graver  guide  with  care  supreme, 
The  chisel  smite,  fix  like  a  rock 

Thy  floating  dream 
Deep  in  the  stern  resisting  block. 

Tongues  and  religions  die,  while  art, 
Poised  in  the  lofty  realms  of  thought, 

Serene,  apart, 
Exults  in  sempiternal  youth. 


BARCAROLLE. 

FROM   THE)  SAME. 

SUN-BRIGHT  maiden,  choose  and  say, 

Whither  shall  we  two  sail  to-day  ? 
The  rose's  breath  is  on  the  gale 
That  softly  moves  our  silken  sail ; 
Our  masts  of  gleaming  ivory 
Are  strung  like  harps  with  yellow  hair, 
That  make  ^Eolian  music  there  ; 
A  seraph  shall  our  pilot  be. 

O  sun-bright  maiden,  choose  and  say, 
Whither  shall  we  two  sail  to-day  ? 
Our  pinnace  lifts  her  snowy  wing 
And  nutters  like  a  living  thing  ; 
And  from  the  shore  the  morning  wind 

Toys  with  our  awning's  purple  fold  ; 

Our  rudder  is  of  beaten  gold 
And  leaves  a  rosy  track  behind. 

O  sun-bright  maiden,  choose  and  say, 
Whither  shall  we  two  sail  to-day  ? 

100 


BARCAROLLE.  1 01 

Our  hold  with  love-apples  is  stored, 

And  all  strange  fruits,  a  goodly  hoard  ; 

A  winged  boy  sits  at  the  prow, 

Pointing  our  path  with  beaming  eye 
And  smile  of  deepest  mystery  ; 

A  wreath  of  myrtle  crowns  his  brow. 

O  sun-bright  maiden,  choose  and  say, 
Whither  in  lyove's  realm  shall  we  stray  ? 
Say,  shall  we  seek  some  storied  isle, 
Where  warm  ^Sgean  waters  smile  ? 
Or  shall  I  see  the  Arctic  sun 
A  flood  of  crimson  glories  shed 
At  midnight  on  that  golden  head, 
Or  sail  to  seas  where  pearls  are  won  ? 

O  sun-bright  maiden,  choose  and  say 
Whither  shall  we  two  sail  to-day  ? 
Follow  the  track  of  Heracles — 
Seeking  the  far  Hesperides  ; 
Or  where  the  South  Sea  flower  expands, 

Float  idly  in  the  moonlight  wan  ; 

Or  sail  beneath  the  rainbow's  span — 
Bright  gateway  to  I^ove's  golden  lands? 

O  sun-bright  maiden,  choose  and  say, 
There  is  no  one  to  say  thee  nay. 
O  seek,  she  saith,  that  faithful  shore 
Where  loving  hearts  will  change  no  more. 


IO2  BARCAROLLE. 

Alas,  my  sails  for  many  a  year 
Have  sped  through  all  Love's  wide  domain, 
Seeking  that  blessed  shore  in  vain  : 

That  land  is  still  unknown,  my  dear. 


SHADOWS. 

FROM   THE  SAME. 

BE  still,  my  heart,  keep  silence,  O  my  soul, 
Thy  fierce  rebellious  transports  are  in  vain, 
Oblivion's  turbid  wave  must  o'er  thee  roll. 

Cease  the  faint  pulsing  of  the  weary  brain, 
Fold  up  the  remnant  of  thy  wings  at  last, 
And  rot,  beneath  the  inexorable  chain. 

Soon  shalt  thou  be  with  refuse  vile  outcast, 
Flung  down  the  bottomless  abyss  that  still 
Yawns  to  the  future  from  the  darkling  past. 

Thy  hopes  are  dead,  broken  thy  lofty  will, 
Thy  name  and  memory  will  be  blotted  out 
Before  the  rattling  clods  thy  grave  refill. 

No  marble  shaft  for  thee  the  heavens  will  flout, 
Nor  tear-drenched  willow  shed  her  graceful  spray, 
No  lying  epitaph  the  truth  will  scout, 

No  choir  will  chant,  no  man  of  God  will  pray, 

No  tears  will  silver  the  funereal  pall — 

Dark  cloud  that  hides  thy  shame  from  light  of  day. 

103 


IO4  SHADOWS. 

The  felled  tree  strangely  moves  his  comrades  tall, 
Waking  the  echoes  of  the  mountain  side, 
But  not  a  leaf  will  quiver  at  thy  fall. 

L,ike  the  mute  convoy  of  the  suicide, 

Thou  shalt  wind  down  through  night  to  find  thy 

doom : 
Thy  ashes  shall  be  scattered  far  and  wide. 

No  circling  rings  shall  break  the  sullen  gloom 
Of  the  dark  pool  that  closes  o'er  thy  head, 
No  widowed  soul  shall  hover  o'er  thy  tomb. 

For  the  chaste  secrets  which  thy  soul  hath  wed, 
With  thee  the  pit  shall  bury  them  from  view, 
Fathoms  below  the  deepest  deep-sea  lead. 

Our  Mother,  Nature,  hath  her  favorites  too, 
Like  any  other  dame,  spoiled  children  they  ; 
Unwelcome  waif,  why  should  they  share  with 
you? 

Upon  them  fall  the  myrtle  and  the  bay, 
E'en  in  the  desert  they  would  find  at  need 
Enchanted  palaces  along  their  way. 

Though  for  the  morrow's  morn  they  take  no 

hee_d, 

Yet  through  their- fingers  filter  golden  sands, 
And  at  a  generous  breast  they  freely  feed. 


SHADOWS.  105 

Kneading  a  withered  breast  with  famished  hands 
Their  outcast  brethren  pine,  or  seek  in  vain 
Some  kinder  bosom  in  relentless  lands. 

And  if  for  them  upon  the  desert  plain 
Illusive  gardens  rise,  and  fountains  play, 
They  vanish  like  the  rainbow  after  rain. 

Or  if  by  chance  a  sunbeam  gone  astray 
Glints  through  the  gloom  that  shrouds  them  ever 
more, 
A  chilling  cloud  obscures  th'  unwonted  ray. 

The  wisest  plans  but  mock  their  hopes  the  more, 

Bringing  them  to  derision  and  dismay  : 

The  sea  engulfs  them  though  they  hug  the  shore. 

The  tree  shall  crush  them,  hollow  with  decay, 
Whose  grateful  shade  invites  them  to  draw  nigh  : 
The  heart  they  lean  on  wins  them  to  betray. 

A  turtle  drops  upon  them  from  the  sky  ; 
The  tower  that  has  braved  a  thousand  years 
Falls  without  warning  just  as  they  pass  by. 

The  friend  who  shared  their  youthful  smiles  and 

tears 

Accuses  them  of  treason  to  the  crown, 
Sending  them  to  the  rack  with  blows  and  jeers. 


IO6  SHADOWS. 

Born  on  the  Danube,  in  the  Seine  they  drown  ; 
Poor  fools,  why  fly  so  far  to  find  the  fate 
That  like  a  slimy  monster  sucks  them  down  ? 

Why  strive  with  Fate  ?  no  jot  will  he  abate  ; 

Even  the  brawny  knees  of  Hercules 

Must  bend  or  break  before  him  soon  or  late. 

They  drain  a  bitter  cup  with  poisonous  lees, 

A  life  ignoble  and  a  death  of  shame, 

And  in  some  potter's  field  they  find  surcease  ; 

Or,  dying  nobly,  leave  behind  no  name, 

While,  mounting  on  their  bones,  some  brazen 

cheat 
Reaches  the  very  pinnacle  of  Fame. 

Destiny  mocks  them  from  her  lofty  seat, 
Dipping  their  sponge  in  vinegar  and  gall : 
Want  grinds  them  in  the  dust  with  iron  feet. 

Hard  by  the  accursed  sea  whose  waves  appal, 
A  scape-goat  lone,  beneath  the  wingless  skies, 
They  wander  where  the  ashen  apples  fall. 

Night  takes  for  them  a  thousand  baleful  eyes, 
Piercing  at  once  their  deepest  hiding-place  : 
Straight  to  their  heart  each  poisoned  arrow  flies. 


SHADOWS.  ID/ 

Thrust  out  of  camp,  the  scape-goat  of  their  race, 
Abhorred  they  live,  and  dead,  the  loathing  earth 
Vomits  their  phantom  from  the  burial-place. 

Such  is  thy  history,  O  my  soul,  from  birth  ; 

Dark  pages  with  decaying  odors  rife, 

A  maze  of  treachery,  and  pain,  and  dearth. 

Yet  't  is  the  story  of  a  vulgar  life  ; 
No  title  casts  a  glamour  o'er  its  woes, 
No  footlights  gild  its  unromantic  strife. 

Across  the  web  the  flying  shuttle  goes, 
Weaving  with  common  threads  a  homely  plot, 
Yet  dark  and  sinister  the  pattern  shows. 

Why  woo  so  long  a  world  that  loves  thee  not  ? 
O   soul,   whence   long  have  perished  hope  and 

faith, 
Why  cling  to  life,  when  death  is  all  thy  lot  ? 

Sweeter  than  bridal  bed  the  couch  of  death, 
More  restful  far  than  sleep  ;  the  asphodel 
Is  sweeter  than  the  crimson  poppy's  breath. 

King,  queen,  and  harlot,  priest  and  infidel, 
Heaped  up  at  random  peacefully  they  rest, 
Commingling  in  one  mighty  urn  pell-mell. 


108  SHADOWS. 

Despairing  brother,  whose  fast  chilling  breast 
Nor  love,  nor  wine  may  warm,  descend  with  me, 
And  burst  the  shadowy  gates  an  eager  guest. 

Abase  thy  head,  and  bend  thy  stubborn  knee ; 
And  like  a  Scythian  chief  in  triumph  led, 
Welcome  the  agony  that  sets  thee  free. 

One  short,  fierce  agony,  and  all  is  said  ; 
Beneath  the  coffin  lid,  sealed  once  for  all, 
Compose  thy  limbs  as  in  a  royal  bed. 

Swift  as  the  fleeting  shadow  on  the  wall 
Thy  feeble  footprints  fall  along  the  sand, 
Nor  voice,  nor  echo  will  thy  song  recall. 

In  the  Corinthian  brass  thy  feeble  hand 
Can  write  no  name  ;  thy  chisel  cannot  bite 
The  marbles  of  Carrara  pure  and  grand. 

He  who  would  climb  Fame's  towering  mountain 

height 

Must  have  a  double  gift,  a  genius  rare  : 
Unto  a  happy  star  he  must  unite. 

Poet,  alas  !  and  lover,  brethren  are  ; 

Twins  of  the  soul,  each  hath  his  cherished  dream, 

Some  saint  ideal,  worshipped  from  afar  ; 


SHADOWS. 


Some  fount  of  youth,  some  pure  Pactolian  stream, 
Some  orb  that  beams  with  strange  unearthly  ray, 
Some  flaming  vision  potent  to  redeem. 

The  fount  is  dry,  the  vision  fades  away  ; 

The  mystic  light  that  led  them  through  the  night 

Dies  in  a  marsh,  and  leaves  them  far  astray. 

O  God,  to  tread  but  once  by  morning  light 
The  alabaster  palace  of  our  dreams, 
Counting  its  colonnades  with  waking  sight  ; 

To  greet  the  lovely  images  that  gleam 

Athwart  the  gardens  of  our  revery  , 

And  drink  the  waters  of  its  mystic  stream  ; 

To  make  the  plunge,  piercing  triumphantly 
The  crystal  vault,  bring  back  the  golden  vase 
buried  with  the  treasures  of  the  sea. 


'T  were  fine  to  feel  the  thrill  of  flight  through 

space, 

Adown  the  far  empyrean  to  float, 
Or  track  the  eagle  in  his  headlong  chase. 

To  find  the  deed  outstrip  the  noble  thought, 
To  find  fit  words  to  mate  our  passion's  cry, 
And  pour  the  tide  with  its  full  burden  fraught. 


IIO  SHADOWS. 

Sailing  through  unknown  seas,  to  catch  the  sigh 
Of  mighty  rivers,  and  through  night's  eclipse 
See  new  worlds  heaving  upward  to  the  sky ; 

To  feel  upon  the  flower  of  our  lips 

The  regal  kiss  that  sometimes  hovers  there  ; 

To  find  the  glen  wherein  the  rainbow  dips  ; 

To  stop  the  wheel  of  fortune  in  the  air  ; 
To  see  before  us  on  the  glowing  page 
The  wavering  thoughts  our  midnight  musings 
bear. 

Such  lots,  alas,  in  this  decrepit  age 

Are  rare  ;  Polycrates  might  wear  his  ring, 

Nor  fear  to  rouse  the  avenging  goddess'  rage. 

Seeking  the  upper  chambers  where  we  cling, 
The  cruel  wave  mounts  upward  step  by  step, 
Mingling  its  murmur  with  our  revelling, 

Till  slimy  phocas,  shapes  that  banish  sleep, 
Gnash  foully  at  our  very  bedsides  there, 
Belched  from  the  bowels  of  the  nether  deep. 

The  church  is  dark,  the  altar  cold  and  bare, 
And  rending  from  their  brows  the  aureole, 
The  saints  blaspheming  die  in  their  despair. 


SHADO  WS.  1 1 1 

The  sun  senescent,  near  his  final  goal, 

Casts  from  his  bloodshot  eye  one  baleful  glare, 

Ere  yet  the  heavens  vanish  like  a  scroll. 

Kach  living  thing  shall  perish  foul  or  fair, 
The  flood  will  top  the  tallest  mountain  chain, 
For  vengeance  cometh  on  and  will  not  spare. 

For  twenty  days  and  nights  through  wind  and 

rain, 

The  raven's  midnight  wing,  cleaving  the  waste, 
Seeks  for  a  haven  where  to  rest  in  vain. 

Headlong  she  falls,  famished  and  spent  at  last, 
And  as  the  widening  circles  mark  the  flood, 
All  Earth  is  but  a  tomb  whence  life  has  passed. 

A  common  sepulchre  for  bad  and  good, 
Upon  this  wave  no  ark  of  safety  rides, 
Bitter  with  tears  and  red  with  human  blood. 

No  second  patriarch  his  vessel  guides, 
A  hive  of  life  ;  a  swelling  fountain  head, 
To  burst  upon  Ararat's  rugged  sides. 

Atlas  has  fallen  !  hark,  O  hark  !  o'erhead 
The  crack  of  doom,  the  supports  of  the  world 
Are  snapped  like  reeds  beneath  Behemoth's  tread. 


112  SHADOWS. 

Our  Mother  Earth,  by  storms  of  chaos  whirled, 
Reels  like  a  drunken  harlot  down  through  space, 
By  wanton  buffets  from  her  orbit  hurled. 

Unto  the  lips  of  an  expiring  race 

The  Son  holds  up  the  cup  of  human  woes  ; 

The  Father  sees  with  coldly  sneering  face. 

When  will  our  crucifixion  cease  ?  still  flows 
The  ruddy  current  from  our  open  side, 
And  red  drops  cluster  on  our  pallid  brows. 

Enough  of  tears  and  blood  ;  O  turn  aside 
The  poisoned  chalice  ;  doth  not  this  suffice  ? 
That  Thy  dear  Son  upon  the  cross  has  died  ? 

He  died  for  naught ;  man  still  must  pay  the  price 
Unless  a  newer  Christ  rise  from  the  dead  : 
The  Pontiff  asks  a  fresher  sacrifice. 

For  nigh  two  thousand  years  the  I^amb  hath  bled  ; 
His  empty  veins  leave  not  the  faintest  stain 
Upon  the  priestly  knife  that  gleams  o'erhead. 

Messiah  cometh  not,  we  watch  in  vain  ; 
The  vail  is  rent,  broken  the  altar  stone, 
The  worshippers  are  slain,  the  church  o'erthrown. 


SONNET:    OU   VONT  ILS f 

FROM   THE   FRENCH   OF  SULLY   PRUDHOMME. 

HPO  what  strange  land  gather  the  slain  of  I/ove  ? 
*•     Heaven  were  no  world  for  them,  it  hath  no 

bliss 

To  match  the  raptures  that  they  knew  in  this  ; 
No  summer  night,  no  dark  secluded  grove, 
Or  deep  ravine  with  sheltering  boughs  above  ; 
Nor  can  the  foul  fiends  of  the  dread  abyss 
So  rend  a  soul  as  the  fierce  agonies 
Of  Love's  disdain,  the  doubts  and  fears  thereof. 

Tame  were  the  joys  of  the  bright  sphere  above 
To  which  the  saints  so  ardently  aspire, 
And  vain  the  anguish  of  eternal  fire 

To  him  who  knows  the  martyrdom  of  L,ove. 

For  souls  consumed  and  dead  there  is  no  room 

In  heaven  or  hell :  oblivion  is  their  doom. 


THE  GAY  CASHIER. 

ADAPTED  FROM  THE  FRENCH. 

TWO  gallant  burglars,  who  for  many  a  day 
Had  laid  their  plans,  at  last  had  made  their 

way 

Into  a  bank  upon  a  stormy  night ; 
Then  with  what  fond,  what  rapturous  delight 
Unto  the  vault  they  flew  to  seize  the  swag  ! 

O  cruel  joke,  there  was  no  swag  at  all : 
That  night  the  gay  cashier,  a  heartless  wag, 
With  all  the  funds  had  skipped  for  Montreal. 


114 


THE  RAVAGES  OF  TIME. 

SCARRON. 

'T'HE  monuments  of  human  pride  and  power, 
*    Engulfed  by  ocean  wave  or  desert  sand, 
And  crushed  by  time's  inexorable  hand, 

Built  for  eternity,  last  but  an  hour. 

Where  are  the  hanging  gardens  and  the  towers 
Of  Babylon  ?  the  marbles  tall  and  grand 
That  stood  like  gods  on  the  ^Egean  strand  ? 

Fallen  and  crumbled.     So  shall  crumble  ours. 

Time  slays  or  withers  all  on  which  we  dote  ; 
His  swift,  remorseless  touches  ne'er  relent, 
Destroying  marble,  mortar,  and  cement. 
Then  why  should  I  repine  because  my  coat 
Is  threadbare  on  the  seams  with  three  years'  wear, 
Out  at  the  elbows,  and  beyond  repair  ? 


HALLUCINATION. 

FROM   TH£   FRENCH. 
I. 

T   AST  night,  or  did  I  dream  ?  my  lady  led 

*— '     Me  to  a  wall  I  oft  had  passed  before, 
And  opened  there  a  curious  secret  door 

Made  by  some  cunning  workmen  ages  dead. 

We  entered  furtively,  and  as  our  tread 
Resounded  on  the  long  untrodden  floor, 
Back  swung  the  portal  with  a  clanging  roar. 

Fleeing  like  startled  children  on  we  sped, 

And  found  an  inner  chamber,  where  was  spread 
A  board  with  gold  and  crystal,  and  a  store 
Of  fruits  and   flowers   from  every  unknown 
shore, 

And  curious  flasks,  whose  contents  gleaming  red 

A  ruddy  radiance  o'er  my  lady  shed, 
And  flung  fantastic  flames  upon  the  floor. 
116 


HALL  UCINA  TION.  1 1  / 

II. 

Bathed  in  the  amber  of  an  unseen  flame, 
A  royal  couch  with  silken  curtains  fair 
Gleamed  like  a  jewel  in  the  alcove  there  ; 
A  dreamy  languor  stole  through  all  my  frame, 
Sweet  beyond  power  of  language  to  declare  ; 
A  breath  of  perfume  moved  the  swooning  air, 
Stirring  the  golden  ringlets  of  my  dame  ; 
And  while  we  faltered,  lo,  a  small  voice  came  : 
' '  O  happy  pair,  with  rosy  forms  aglow, 
Here  lie  within  the  temple's  deep  alcove 
Sweet  mysteries  that  I  pant  to  have  you  know  ; 
Wine  that  hath  stained  the  trampling  feet  of  lyove, 
And  fruit  that  ripened  in  the  sacred  grove  : 
Break  every  seal,  and  let  the  purple  flow. ' ' 


III. 


I  turned  to  seek  my  lady's  eyes,  when  lo  ! 
The  vision  vanished,  and  I  stood  alone 
Without  the  temple  walls,    whose  cold  gray 
stone 

Mocked  my  endeavor,  rising  row  on  row. 

I  called  my  lady's  name,  fearful  and  low. 
No  answer,  save  the  hoot-owl's  jeering  tone, 
And  the  pale  mocking  moon  that  coldly  shone. 

Now,  sadly  round  the  temple  walls  I  go, 

Whose  deepest  mysteries  I  thought  to  know. 


1 1 8  HALL  UCINA  TION. 

I  thought  its  inmost  chamber  mine  ;  fond  fool, 
I  only  stood  within  some  vestibule, 
Where  all  men's  feet  may  wander  to  and  fro, 
And  saw,  reflected  from  some  mirror  there, 
My  own  imaginings  too  warm  and  fair. 

IV. 

IN   THK    GROVK. 

Once  more  the  huntress  clad  in  silvery  mail 
Seeks  her  Endymion,  over  hill  and  glade  ; 
Once  more  the  hour  so  dear  to  youth  and  maid — 

The  hour  that  all  Cove's  guardian  spirits  hail. 

Wrapped  in  the  moonlight  like  a  lucent  veil, 
Is  it  for  me,  young  priestess,  that,  arrayed 
Still  in  thy  vestal  robes,  thy  feet  have  strayed 

So  far  from  where  the  sacred  fires  pale  ? 

Last  night  within  the  temple's  dim  alcove 
I  durst  not  lift  my  conscious  eyes  to  thine. 
Lo,  now  thy  lips  and  eyes  have  sought  for  mine, 
And  round  my  neck  thy  sheltering  arms  en 
twine, 

While  our  commingling  footsteps  freely  rove 
Through  all  the  mysteries  of  the  silent  grove. 


TO  MY  CRITICS. 

IMITATED   FROM   D£  MUSSKT. 

JV/l  Y  verse  contains  some  images,  'tis  true, 

'  *  *     On  Byron's  pages  found,  what  then,  he  too 

On  other  pages  found  them  long  before, 
(Byron,  I  think,  would  hardly  grudge  them  me, 
Seeing  I  need  them  so  much  worse  than  he). 

Read  carefully  the  old  Italian  lore, 
If  you,  to  draw  it  very  mild,  would  see 
How  freely  Byron  borrowed  ;  he  or  she 
As  stupid  as  a  school  teacher  must  be 

Who  thinks  in  eighteen  hundred  eighty-four 
To  find  a  thought  or  rhyme  not  used  before. 
And  yet  I  must  not  speak  of  "  waters  blue," 
Of  "  sunny  skies,"  and  "eyes  of  heavenly 

hue," 

Nor  use  some  old  stock  metaphor  at  need 
Because,  forsooth,  pedantic  fools  may  read 
The  same  in  every  language, — Sanscrit,  Greek, 
Hebrew  and  L,atin,  Dutch  and  Arabic. 
Great  bards  of  yore,  and  they  of  yesterday, 
Before  whose  sun  my  rushlight  pales  away, 
To  whose  deep  flood,  my  song  is  but  a  rill, — 
All,  great  and  small,  hear  the  same  chorus  still. 
119 


120  TO  MY  CRITICS. 

Read  the  old  rotting  magazines  and  see 
The  very  venom  that  they  void  on  me  ; 
The  arsenal  where  roving  malice  meets 
The  rusty  darts  that  stung  the  heart  of  Keats. 
Vile  innuendo,  and  malignant  sneer, 
Blanche,  Tray,  and  Sweetheart,  hardly  changed 
are  here. 

The  lowest  place  amid  the  minstrel  throng 

Is  all  I  claim  ;  in  the  full  tide  of  song 

My  voice  is  lost ;  upon  my  page  appears 

No  burning  message  from  supernal  spheres. 

But  Teian  glow  and  lesbian  passion  still 

A  thousand  lyres  in  every  land  they  thrill. 

A   chord  once  found  belongs,  the  whole  world 

through, 

To  every  minstrel  that  can  strike  it  true. 
My  verses  rhyme  (at  least  some  of  them  do), 
And  sweet  as  ever  in  our  ear  there  chimes 
The  melody  of  old  recurrent  rhymes. 
Dove  ever  mates  with  love,  and  bliss  with  kiss, 
In  every  song  from  Sappho's  day  to  this. 


THE  YOUTH  AND  THE  OLD  MAN. 

FIvORIAN. 

D  man,"   said   an   ambitious  youth  one 
day, 

"  Show  me  the  path  to  wealth  and  fame,  I  pray." 
Answering  not,  the  old  man  mused  awhile, 
His  thin  lips  wreathing  with  a  cynic  smile, 
Then  spoke  :   * '  Is  fame  thy  wish  ?  With  earnest 

zeal 

Devote  thyself  to  serve  the  commonweal ; 
To  her  give  all  thy  talents  and  thy  time, 
The  flush  of  youth,  and  vigorous  manhood's  prime; 
And  should  the  foeman  come  with  deadly  strife, 
In  her  defence  be  swift  to  lose  thy  life, 
Perchance  with  *  failure  '  branded  on  thy  heart. 
The  road  to  wealth  is  surer  ;  seek  the  mart, 
Where  cunning  money-changers  lie  in  wait, 
Casting  their  nets  with  watered  stocks  for  bait. 
Or  join  the  nobler  throng,  whose  argosies 
Bear  on  white  wings  across  the  distant  seas 
The  honest "     "  Hold,  old  man,  I  '11  none  of 

these  ; 

121 


122        THE  YOUTH  AND  THE   OLD  MAN. 

With  intrigue  and  deceit  I  would  not  soil 
My  soul,  and  yet  I  shrink  from  sordid  toil." 

Again  the  old  man  mused  in  silence  while 
Around  his  mouth  hovered  a  cynic  smile, 
Then  answered  thus  :  * '  Why,  simply  be  a  fool, 
And  win  both  fame  and  wealth,  in  spite  of  rule. ' ' 


THE  CATHEDRAL  BELL  AND  ITS  RIVAL. 

IRIARTB. 

T  N  a  renowned  cathedral  hung  a  bell, 

*     The  pride  of  all  the  country  far  and  near  ; 

A  bell  whose  deep  vibrations  never  fell 

Save  on  the  greatest  church-days  of  the  year. 
Then  for  some  moments  brief  the  air  was  thrilled 

By  some  deep  strokes  with  solemn  pause  be 
tween  ; 
The  heart  devout  with  pious  awe  was  filled, 

And  sinners  felt  repentance  swift  and  keen. 

Within  a  neighboring  hamlet  poor  and  small, 
With  crumbling  belfry  tottering  to  its  fall, 
There  stood  a  paltry  chapel  low  and  mean  ; 
A  cracked  and  rusty  cow-bell  hung  therein, 

Harsh  and  discordant,  but  the  sexton  sly, 
Only  upon  the  solemn  days  and  high, 
Six  times  a  year  at  most,  its  voice  awoke, 
Like  the  cathedral  bell  with  solemn  stroke. 
This  strange  reserve,  in  parish  bells  unknown, 
Gave  to  the  wretched  bell  a  high  renown. 
123 


124      THE  CATHEDRAL  BELL  AND  ITS  RIVAL. 

Its  jangling  equalled  to  the  rustic's  ear 
The  tones  majestic  of  its  grand  compeer 

Pretentious,  owl-like  silence  oft  supplies 
The  lack  of  wit  in  those  accounted  wise. 
' '  Be  swift  to  listen  and  be  slow  to  speak, ' ' 
If  a  high  name  for  wisdom  you  would  seek. 


BLUE  BYES  AND  BLACK  EYES. 

IMITATED   FROM   ANDAIJJSIAN   COPRAS. 
I. 


miracles  are  thy  blue  eyes, 
Haughty  or  tender  ; 
Robbing  our  Andalusian  skies 
Of  half  their  splendor. 

Celestial  eyes  of  heaven's  own  hue, 

Twin  thrones  of  glory, 
Whose  glances  every  day  subdue 

New  territory. 

Blue  were  the  waters  and  the  skies 

Of  happy  Eden  ; 
And  blue  should  be  a  Christian's  eyes, 

Matron  or  maiden. 

By  heaven  those  peerless  orbs  of  blue 

To  thee  were  given, 
And  all  the  mischief  that  they  do 

Is  known  in  heaven. 
125 


126         BLUE   EYES  AND  BLACK  EYES. 

I  thought  thy  blue  eyes  beacons  fair, — 

O  treacherous  seeming  ; 
O  treacherous  waves  of  golden  hair, 

That  wrecked  my  dreaming  ! 

Two  saints  the  blue  eyes  seemed  to  me 

That  wrought  my  ruin  : 
Who  would  have  thought  that  saints  could  be 

A  soul's  undoing  ? 


ii. 


Black  eyes  are  truer  still,  I  ween, 

Than  any  other : 
Dark  were  the  eyes  of  Eden's  Queen, 

And  Mary  Mother. 

The  holy  ones  of  sacred  lore 

All  dark  are  painted, 
Inspired  prophetess  of  yore 

And  maiden  sainted. 


Blue  eyes  are  cold  as  polished  steel, 
For  all  their  splendor  ; 

While  thine  a  lambent  flame  reveal, 
So  warm  and  tender. 


BLUE  EYES  AND   BLACK  EYES.         I2/ 

Dearer  thine  olive  hue,  and  eyes 

Of  raven  blackness, 
Than  all  the  azure  of  the  skies, 

And  lily's  whiteness. 

Thine  eyebrows  are  a  Moorish  grove, 

Whence  issuing  fleetly 
Two  winged  archers  lightly  rove, 

Wounding  so  sweetly. 

But  when  their  victims  bleeding  lie 

Faintly  appealing, 
Two  tender  blackamoors  draw  nigh 

With  balm  of  healing. 


COMPLAINT  TO  THE  VIRGIN. 

FROM   A   CUBAN   POETKSS. 

IWl  OTHER  ineffable,  whose  radiant  brow 
*  "  *         The  stars  have  crowned, 
O'er  all  earth's  daughters  chosen,  thou 
The  sinless  found  ; 

Of  Adam's  fallen  race,  the  first  and  last 

Untouched  by  strife, 

Whose  beauteous  feet  unstained  and  pure  have 
passed 

The  snares  of  life. 

The  angelic  heralds  at  those  spotless  feet 

Once  bent  the  knee, 
And  now  adore  at  the  effulgent  seat 

Eternally. 

A  gift  too  pure  and  bright  for  earthly  bloom, 

Flower  of  the  sky  ; 
The  odors  of  whose  matchless  grace  perfume 

The  courts  on  high. 
128 


COMPLAINT  TO  THE  VIRGIN.  12$ 

Look  down  in  pity  from  thy  lofty  throne, 

Through  realms  of  light, 
To  where  thy  sorrowing  sister  walks  alone 

In  deepest  night. 

Oh,  see  the  endless  waves  of  anguish  fierce 

That  o'er  me  roll ! 
Hast  thou  not  bled  ?  did  not  the  sword  once  pierce 

Thy  tender  soul  ? 

Beating  the  breakers  on  the  outer  bar 

My  vessel  lies ; 
For  me  there  beams  no  friendly  guiding-star, 

No  beacons  rise. 

Blest  beacon  seen  in  my  despairing  dreams, 

Burst  forth  on  me, 
And  light  my  stormy  pathway  with  thy  beams, 

Star  of  the  sea. 

O  baleful  night,  when  some  malignant  blast, 

Mocking  and  wild, 
Into  an  orphan's  cradle  rudely  cast 

A  sleeping  child  ! 

Of  careless  childhood's  flowers  and  smiles  and 
tears, 

The  tears  were  mine. 
Alas  !  I  gather  in  maturer  years 

No  fruit  or  wine. 


130  COMPLAINT  TO  THE  VIRGIN. 

All  night  I  bruise  my  failing  wings  in  vain, 

Seeking  for  rest — 
A  bird  unmated  on  an  arid  plain 

Without  a  nest. 

I  roam  a  timid  stranger  on  the  earth — 

A  foreign  land — 
Bewildered  by  the  light,  the  joy  and  mirth 

On  every  hand. 

A  vine-clad  mountain  to  the  beaming  skies 

That  lifts  its  crest, 
While  an  abyss  of  untold  horror  lies 

Beneath  its  breast. 

Some  loving  souls  at  birth  are  consecrated 

To  pain  and  grief  ; 

Through  gloomy  vales  they  stray,  unknown,  un 
mated, 

Without  relief. 

I  seek  no  longer  these  sad  mysteries 

To  penetrate ; 
I  must  not  murmur  at  the  high  decrees 

That  fix  my  fate. 

They  say  that  God  regards  with  pitying  eye 

The  poor  and  weak, 
Smiting  the  haughty  head,  and  passing  by 

The  low  and  meek. 


COMPLAINT  TO  THE  VIRGIN.  131 

No  daring  oak,  whose  branches,  heaven  defying, 

Pierce  the  blue  sky  ; 
A  blighted  leaf  before  the  tempest  flying, 

A  reed  am  I. 

A  poor  blind  pilgrim  through  the  wilderness 

Groping  my  way, 
Striving  with  agonizing  tears  to  press 

From  night  to  day. 

A  heart  whence  all  illusions  long  have  perished 

Seeks  not  for  bliss. 
I  ask  not  human  love,  O  Mother  cherished, 

I  ask  but  this  : 

A  lowly  shelter  far  from  tongues  maligning 

And  bitter  sneers ; 
There  let  me  pray  and  quench  all  fierce  repining 

With  grateful  tears. 

And  some  glad  morning  through  my  cloister 
swelling, 

A  golden  portal 

May  burst,  and  flood  with  rosy  light  my  dwelling, 
And  joys  immortal. 


THE    CRUCIFIXION. 

OU)   FRENCH   SONNET. 

"\17HIIyE  Jesus  suffered  for  the  human  race 
* "    Upon  the  tree,  death  came  and  found  him 

there. 

Transfixed  with  shame,  at  first  he  did  not  dare 
To  look  upon  his  sovereign's  awful  face. 

But  Jesus,  full  of  majesty  and  grace, 

Meekly  bowed  down  his  head,  august  and  fair, 
Veiling  the  glory  that  it  used  to  wear, 

And  waves  of  darkness  fell  upon  the  place. 

Then  shuddering  Death  his  shameful  task  ful 
filled  ; 

Earth  to  her  centre  rocked  as  though  the  day 
Of  doom  were  come  ;  the  veil  was  rent  away — 

All  Nature  moaned  and  quivered,  horror-filled. 

The  very  stones  were  softened,  thou  alone, 
Vile  scoffing  sinner,  took  a  heart  of  stone. 


132 


FROM  THE  SPANISH. 

UNHAPPY  he  who  buys 
The  toys  that  Cupid  offers  ; 
For  each  delight  he  proffers 
Some  dear  illusion  dies. 
Sell  not  thy  dearest  treasures 
For  his  too  fleeting  pleasures. 


133 


THK  BOOK  OK 

I^AMARTINE. 

soul  the  Book  of  L,ife  must  read  and 
•*-*     prove — 

Fate  turns  the  leaves  whether  we  will  or  no. 
We  cannot  linger  o'er  the  lines  we  love, 

Or  hasten  o'er  the  dreary  lines  of  woe. 
We  have  not  read  the  page  of  I,ove  aright 
When,  lo  !  the  page  of  Death  appalls  our  sight. 


134 


MEMORIAL  DAY,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


DEDICATED  TO  THE  G.  A.  R. 


TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

WRITTEN   FOR   MEMORIAL  DAY   IN  1885. 


twenty  years  the  snowy  wings  of  Peace 
Over  trie  land  have  brooded  ;  flocks  increase 
Upon  the  fields,  now  blessed  by  smiling  stars, 
Where  drave  the  reeking  chariot-  wheels  of  Mars. 
How  like  a  falcon's  flight  the  }^ears  have  flown, 
Since  Appomattox  rang  the  curtain  down  ; 
And  listening  to  my  voice  are  tall  young  men, 
And  women  fair  who  were  but  children  then. 
Our  young  Republic,  freed  from  all  his  chains, 
For  peaceful  conquest  girds  his  lusty  reins. 
The  smiling  Mississippi  to  the  sea 
Rolls  as  in  days  of  old,  unvexed  and  free, 
And  East  and  West  in  one  grand  commonweal 
Are  bound  by  triple  bands  of  shining  steel. 
The  apple  tree  historic  rots  away  ; 
Our  gunboats  all  have  crumbled  to  decay  ; 
The  rifle-pits  that  scarred  the  Southern  plains 
Are  washed  away  by  twenty  winters'  rains  ; 
The  impetuous  onset  of  the  bayonet  line 
Tramples  no  more  the  growing  corn  and  vine, 
And  nesting  birds  pour  forth  their  raptures  where 
The  thunder-bolts  of  battle  rent  the  air. 


138  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

But  still  remain  in  many  hearts  we  know 
The  ghastly  scars  of  twenty  years  ago. 
How  many  a  comrade's  widow  treads  alone 
A  narrow  path  by  cruel  thorns  o'ergrown  ! 
'T  is  long  since  song  of  mating  bird  has  thrilled 
That  lonely  heart,  with  tender  memories  filled, — 
Memories  still  speeding  backward  to  the  time 
When,  brave  and  beautiful  in  manhood's  prime, 
Her  bridegroom  more  than  twenty  years  ago 
Sprang  at  the  bugle  call  to  meet  the  foe. 
Strong  men  for  other  women  dig  the  gold, 
Tread  out  the  wine,  and  weave  the  silken  fold  ; 
Her  wine  of  I^ife  in  forests  dark  and  dank 
The  thirsty  soil  of  Mississippi  drank  ; 
Her  daily  lot  for  more  than  twenty  years 
Has  been  the  widow's  toil,  and  widow's  tears. 

Comrades,  we  're  growing  old  ;  upon  our  hairs 

Gather  the  frosts  of  more  than  twenty  years, 

Since  in  the  trench  at  Petersburg  we  lay, 

Or,  gayly  holding  our  triumphal  way, 

Unto  the  sea  we  swept  with  Sherman's  pennon, 

Or  heard  the  roar  of  Stonewall  Jackson's  cannon, 

Waking  the  echoes  of  the  Rapidan, 

Or  through  the  valley  whirled  with  Sheridan. 

Still  surges  up  as  though  of  yesterday 

The  memory  of  those  that  passed  away  ; 

Still  floating  down  the  vista  of  the  years, 

We  hear  their  voices,  see  their  smiles  and  tears. 


TWENTY  YEARS  AGO.  139 

In  each  successive  strife  how  fast  they  fell — 
The  tried  companions  that  we  knew  so  well. 
Some,  fleeing  from  the  ghastly  prison  pen, 
By  bloodhounds  tracked  were  slain  in  swamp  and 

fen ; 

Some  ashes  mingle  with  the  sounding  tide, 
And  some  enrich  the  rugged  mountain  side, 
Where  the  tall  pines  of  frowning  Kenesaw 
Quivered  like  reeds  before  the  blast  of  war  ; 
Now  looming  up  in  shadowy  ranks  they  stand 
I4ke  guardian  phantoms  brooding  o'er  the  land. 
No  higher  impulse  thrilled  the  knights  of  old 
Who  to  the  crusades  like  a  torrent  rolled, 
To  pour  for  the  dear  cross  their  blood  like  wine 
Upon  the  plains  of  Holy  Palestine, 
And  feed  on  desert  sands  in  the  far  Bast 
The  jackals  ravening  for  their  glorious  feast. 

They  reck  not  where  their  scattered  ashes  rest 

Who  speed  to  the  reunion  of  the  blest ; 

As  eaglets  soaring  to  the  gates  of  light 

Spurn  the  dull  shells  that  long  confined  their 

flight. 

For  you  the  amaranthine  wreath  we  twine, 
Raise  the  high  song,  and  pour  the  ruddy  wine ; 
For  you  the  rhythmic  beat  of  martial  feet, 
As  the  long  lines  go  swaying  down  the  street ; 
For  you  the  plantive  reed's  subduing  moan 
Commingles  with  the  hautboy's  rapturous  tone, 


140  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 

The  rolling  drum,  the  thrilling  trumpet  blare, 
And  silken  banners  float  upon  the  air 
Like  bright  ethereal  drapery  trailing  there. 
The  noblest  sons  of  Karth,  of  every  clime, 
Welcome  you  to  their  galaxy  sublime  ; 
And  flowers,  by  maidens  fairer  still  than  they, 
Are  offered  to  your  sacred  shades  to-day  ; 
Roses  and  dittany — and  lilies  fair, 
Mingle  their  breath  upon  the  vernal  air  ; 
But  sweeter  than  the  fleeting  gifts  we  bring 
Your  memory  perennial  shall  spring, 
And  loving  tears  each  spring-time  shall  bedew 
The  flowers  that  loving  hands  shall  here  renew ; 
And  younger  bards,  with  truer  touch  than  mine, 
Will  pour  for  you  the  flood  of  song  divine, 
While    millions    yet    unborn,   with    quickening 

breath, 
Will  hear  the  tale  heroic  of  your  death. 

O  host  of  gallant  comrades  sweeping  by, 
Up  the  red  track  of  glory  to  the  sky — 
Reynolds,  McPherson,  Dahlgren,  Garesche', 
And  all  the  unknown  names  as  brave  as  they, — 
Great  hearts  and  souls  as  those  of  song  and  story, 
Whose  only  guerdon  was  a  deathbed  gory  ; 
As  youthful  as  of  yore  we  see  you  now, 
The  flush  of  victory  on  each  radiant  brow, 
And  youthful  in  our  withering  hearts  shall  glow 
Your  generous  valor  in  the  Long  Ago. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

O  ONG,  legend,  history,  I  scan  in  vain  ; 

^     Outside  of  Holy  Writ,  no  shape  appears 
So  godlike  as  thy  homely  form  ;  the  spheres 

Darken  and  die,  thy  glory  shall  not  wane. 

Monarchs  have  sat  self-crowned  upon  the  Seine 
And  on  the  Tiber  ;  nations  sick  with  fears 
Have  builded  altars  to  them,  drenched  with  tears 

And  smoking  with  a  hecatomb  of  slain. 

O  Christ  of  Freedom,  no  high  altars  fume 
For  thee,  but  freely  flow  the  tears  and  blood, 

The  pure  sweet  blood  of  thy  own  martyrdom, 
And  tears  of  mingled  grief  and  gratitude 

From  the  dark  millions  by  thy  pen  set  free, 

Led  from  their  long  Gethsemane  by  thee. 


141 


THE  PRISONER'S  DREAM. 

the  last  sad  day  of  the  dying  year, 
As  I  lay  in  my  prison  racked  with  pain, 
I  heard  the  voices  of  children  clear 

Swelling  out  on  the  night  in  a  peaceful  strain. 
They  sang  a  farewell  to  the  dying  year, 

And  the  far  faint  tones  of  an  organ  fell 
With  a  soothing  cadence  upon  my  ear, 

And  I  slept  at  last  in  my  loathsome  cell. 
My  body  slept  with  its  clanking  chain, 

But  the  prison  walls  fled  far  away, 
And  my  spirit,  glad  and  free  again, 

"Went  forth  as  upon  its  bridal  day. 
I  never  had  thought  again  to  sing, 

But  a  song  welled  forth  from  my  joyous  heart, 
As  waters  gush  from  a  long-sealed  spring 

When  the  chains  of  winter  are  rent  apart. 
"  I  'm  coming,  I  'm  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear  ; 

In  the  heaven  of  thy  arms,  my  own  sweet  wife, 
I  '11  usher  the  birth  of  the  glad  new  year  ; 

I  'm  coming,  I  'm  coming,  my  love,  my  life !  " 


Hark  !  the  clang  of  the  changing  sentry's  steel ; 

Awaken,  O  fool,  from  thy  blissful  bed  ; 
On  the  stony  floor  of  thy  dungeon  kneel, 

And  hug  thy  chain,  for  the  dream  is  fled. 


142 


HOW  OFT  A  SENTRY  SAD  AND  LONE. 

T  T  OW  oft,  a  sentry  sad  and  lone, 

*  *     The  starry  midnight  host  I  've  counted, 

As  up  the  eastern  horizon 

Into  the  sky  they  slowly  mounted. 

Two  still  seemed  missing  from  their  place, 
The  brightest  of  the  heavenly  number  ; 

But  now  I  find  them  in  thy  face, 

Nightly  they  beam  upon  my  slumber. 


143 


FROM   COPRAS   OF  AN   ANDAI^USIAN 
SOLDIER. 

T  F  daring  deeds  might  win  thy  vows, 
*     At  nothing  would  I  falter  ; 
I  'd  dare  thy  father's  beetling  brows, 
Or  those  of  grim  Gibraltar. 

I  '11  seek  the  thickest  of  the  strife, 

And  lofty  deeds  of  glory  ; 
My  girl  shall  be  a  General's  wife, 

Or  mourn  a  lover  gory. 

Ivight  batteries  on  the  fatal  field, 
Their  countless  victims  strewing, 

Are  the  bright  eyes  to  which  I  yield 
For  quarter  meekly  suing. 

Thy  lips  are  silken  banners,  and 

Beneath  their  crimson  lustre, 
In  gleaming  lines  the  soldiers  stand, 

Two  ranks  prepared  for  muster. 

The  girl  that  jilts  a  veteran  bold 

To  marry  a  clodhopper, 
Would  throw  away  the  finest  gold 

To  pick  up  worthless  copper. 


144 


FROM  THK  SAME. 

*"THB  conscripts  march,  O  cruel  theft, 
•*•      While  those  that  are  rejected, 
The  crooked  and  the  larne,  are  left 
To  comfort  maids  dejected. 

If  swift  promotion  you  would  gain, 
Yet  shrink  from  war  and  slaughter, 

The  path  is  old  and  very  plain — 
Marry  the  General's  daughter. 


145 


THE  GI,ORY  OF  A  SPANISH  DRAGOON. 

FROM   THE)  SAMS. 

MY  little  Pepita 
Will  be  jealous  I  know, 
For  I  promised  to  meet  her, 

But  how  can  I  go  ? 
I  come  off  of  guard, 

And  go  on  police  ; 
My  sergeant 's  a  hard 

One,  and  gives  me  no  peace. 
There  's  the  devil  to  pay 

At  fatigue  duty  too  ; 
Every  hour  of  the  day 

There  is  something  to  do. 
A  soldier  at  work, 

What  a  pitiful  sight ! 
I  'd  desert  to  the  Turk 

In  the  very  next  fight, 
But  his  way  of  baptizing 

You  all  will  agree, 
Is  quite  too  surprising, 

It  would  never  suit  me. 
146 


THE  GLOR  Y  OF  A  SPANISH  DRAGOON.      147 

But  my  sergeant  is  worse 

Than  a  Turk  or  a  Jew, 
He  finds  something  to  curse 

At,  whatever  I  do. 
At  every  roll-call, 

If  I  'm  not  upon  time, 
Drill,  stables,  and  all, 

He  counts  it  a  crime  ; 
He  laughs  at  my  story, 

In  the  guard-house  I  'm  thrown, — 
And  this  is  the  glory 

Of  a  Spanish  dragoon. 

10 


WRITTEN  FOR  A  REUNION  OF  VETER 
ANS  IN  THE  YEAR  1915. 


once  more  to-night  we  gather 
here, 

A  dwindling  band  of  graybeards  ;  autumn  sere 
Pales  into  winter,  Indian  summer's  glow 
Fades  from  the  hills,  reluctant  still  to  go  ; 
And  Earth  itself  fades  from  our  sight  away, 
I4ke  rosy  clouds  that  flit  at  close  of  day  ; 
In  our  hearts  too  the  flame  burns  low  at  last,  — 
An  arctic  winter  closes  round  us  fast. 

While  the  remaining  grains,  how  few,  alas  ! 
Of  golden  sand,  pour  through  the  hour-glass, 
Fill  up,  dear  friends,  your  goblets  once  again, 
And  warm  the  pulses  in  each  shrunken  vein 
With  sunshine  garnered  on  some  Gallic  plain, 
Or  stolen  from  the  vine-clad  hills  of  Spain. 
Here  's  to  the  living  absent,  comrades  they 
So  gay  in  camp,  so  dauntless  in  the  fray, 
The  lingering  remnant  of  the  mighty  host 
That  swept  from  far  Atlanta  to  the  coast. 
Since  then  their  prows  through  every  sea  have 

foamed, 

And  o'er  five  continents  their  feet  have  roamed, 
148 


A    REUNION  OF  VETERANS.  149 

And  plucked  the  brightest  bays  in  fields  afar, 
Who  glittered  brightest  in  the  van  of  war. 
But  fast  and  faster  from  our  sight  they  fail, 
A  few  belated  stragglers  feebly  hail 
Along  the  banks  of  Styx  the  boatman  pale. 
Where'er  they  are,  once  more  we  pledge  them  all, 
Kre  from  the  thinning  ranks  we  too  shall  fall. 


high  the  cup,  a  generous  current  pour, 
Libations  to  the  chosen  friends  of  yore, 
Who  wander  on  the  dim  Plutonian  shore. 
A  mist  arises  from  the  wine-stained  ground, 
And  lo,  what  phantom  faces  gather  round  ! 
Like  storm-blown  wreaths  they  flit  —  e'en  so  must 

we 
Soon  pass  like  vapors  blown  across  the  sea. 

Now  draw  together,  fling  apart  the  doors 
Of  wit  and  fancy,  open  up  the  stores 
Of  feeling  that  have  been  repressed  so  long  ; 
Waken  the  voice  of  melody  and  song, 
These  fleeting  moments  sweetly  to  prolong, 
And  kindling  up  once  more  the  altar  fire, 
Let  the  last  embers  all  in  flame  expire. 


TWENTY-FIVE  SONNETS 


TO 

DEAR  lady,  doth  the  singer's  voice  in  thee 
Awake  an  answering  chord  ?  if  not  so,  be 
Barren  the  song  and  all  devoid  of  worth, 
Save  to  awaken  idle  scorn  and  mirth  ; 
Thy  soul,  self-poised  in  cold  tranquillity, 
Will  smile  to  think  how  foolish  some  may  be. 
But  if  thy  bosom  swell  with  tender  sighs, 
If  the  deep  fountains  of  thy  soul  are  stirred, 
Meeting  some  dear  but  unexpected  word ; 
If,  answering  mine,  responsive  pulses  rise, 
And  thy  lips  tremble  to  the  happy  eyes 
Suffused  with  pleasure  at  the  glad  surprise 
Of  verses  all  too  cold  for  thy  completeness, 
Know  thy  own  heart  hath  lent  them  all  their 
sweetness. 


153 


POESY. 

DEFORE  the  human  hand  a  stylus  held, 

•*-'     Ere  papyrus'  or  parchment's  mute  appeal, 
Sweet  songs  were  sung  whose  echoes  charm  us 
still  ; 

From  dying  lips  undying  music  welled. 

Wedded  to  strains  from  chosen  souls  that  swelled, 
Were  rescued  from  oblivion's  clammy  seal, 
Fantastic  legend,  laws  of  commonweal, 

Heroic  deeds  in  days  of  hoary  eld. 

Muse  of  the  lyre  and  harp,  till  latest  day 
Thy  voice  shall  bear  along  the  shores  of  Time, 

While  kingdoms  crumble,  and  while  tongues  de 
cay, 
The  numbers  of  the  ancient  bards  sublime. 

Still  thy  anointed  favorites  hold  their  sway, 

'Mid  falling  stars,  and  gods  that  pass  away. 


154 


THE  ROSE. 

'T'HE  flushing  wave  bloomed  into  wondrous 
*      flower, 

And  rosy  light  burst  forth  unknown  till  then, 
When  Aphrodite  dawned  on  gods  and  men. 

Thy  birth,  O  Rose,  was  in  that  mystic  hour. 

Transcendent  Rose,  pride  of  the  Paphian  bower, 
And  sweet  consoler  of  the  thorny  glen, 
What  virgin  charms  thy  blush  illumines  when 

Upon  the  virgin  heart  lyove  seals  his  power. 

Fair  as  the  lily  was  the  Rose's  breast  ; 
But  when  the  generous  vine  upon  it  bled, 
Swift  blushes  o'er  its  swelling  beauties  spread 

Till  every  leaf  the  tender  flame  confessed, 

While  from  thy  wakened  heart,  O  queenly  Rose, 

Ambrosial  incense  on  the  air  arose. 


TO  A  FAIR  SANTA  BARBARAN. 

\17HY  blooms  the  fairest  flower   'neath  rosy 
*  *      skies, 

Where  all  is  bloom  and  fragrance  ?  why  unfold 

There,  where  the  nectar  that  its  petals  hold 
Among  the  orange  groves  neglected  lies, 
And  all  its  perfume  all  unheeded  dies  ! 

And  thou,  dear  maid,  with  wealth  of  love  un 
told, 

More  precious  far  than  mines  of  gems  and  gold, 
Why  linger  'mid  these  cloyed  and  listless  eyes  ? 

O  with  thy  voice,  and  smile  ineffable, 
And  eyes  so  meet  for  sympathetic  tears, 
Seek  some  sad  land  oppressed  by  grief  and 

fears, 

A  bright  consoling  angel  there  to  dwell ; 
Fly,  ere  thy  robes  are  wet  with  honey  dew, 
And  thy  own  sweetness  cloys  thee  through  and 
through. 


156 


LA  DIVA. 

A    SEA  of  faces  ripple  round  her  where, 
-**•    As  on  a  sunny  isle,  the  Diva  glows 

Behind  the  footlights  like  a  full-blown  rose  ; 
A  hush  expectant  fills  the  brooding  air. 

But  hist,  O  hist !  what  dying  cygnet  there  ? 
How  bubbling  from  her  alabaster  throat 
Pours  forth  the  wave  of  every  passion's  note — 

Hope,  fear,  love's  ecstasy,  and  blank  despair  ? 

A  moment's  silence  ere  the  plaudits  rise, 

Till  like  a  storm  they  beat  the  trembling  walls, 

And  white  hands  plash  like  wave-crests  to  the 

skies. 
Alas  !  't  is  o'er,  the  jealous  curtain  falls ; 

And  as  the  tumult  of  our  rapture  dies, 

A  misty  curtain  veils  our  happy  eyes. 


TO  A  HAPPY  LOVER. 


not  before  the  world  thy  happy  love, 
the  poor  fatuous  one  whose  pleasure 
lies 

Not  in  lyOve's  glance,  but  in  the  envious  eyes 
Of  other  fools  ;  deep  in  the  myrtle  grove 
Seek  some  untrodden  way,  shadowed  above  ; 
There,  if  L,ove  will,  his  unknown  harmonies, 
His  inmost  heart  and  core,  his  tears  and  sighs, 
And  unimagined  mysteries  thou  mayest  prove. 

But  if  thou  find  his  choicest  fruits  and  flowers, 
Guard  them  from  eyes  profane  with  jealous 

care  ; 
Love,  proud  but  tender,  brooks  no  sign-board 

there, 

Pointing  the  pathway  to  his  sacred  bowers  ; 
Himself  the  entrance,  hidden  and  o'ergrown, 
Unto  his  chosen  favorites  will  make  known. 


158 


METEMPSYCHOSIS. 

i. 

T  WAS  a  huntsman  in  my  youth,  and  knew 

*     Each  bird  and  beast  that  haunts  the  forest 

tall, 

Or  wings  the  air,  hard  by  the  water-fall. 
Over  the  plain  and  up  the  mountain  blue 
My  twanging  bow  was  heard,  my  arrows  flew. 
My  bowstring  now  is  rent,  my  arrows  all 
I4ke  spears  that  from  the  withered  pine-cones 

fall, 

Have  from  my  shrunken  quiver  vanished  too. 
Yet  sometimes  o'er  me  steals  the  olden  mood, 
And  wandering  in  the  forest  deep  and  dark, 
I  greet  each  old  familiar  tree  and  mark, 
Each  spot  whereon  the  lovely  quarry  stood, 
While  faintly  through  my  withered  veins  once 

more 
Leaps  the  triumphant  thrill  I  knew  of  yore. 

n. 

I  shot  an  arrow  through  the  wood  one  day 
In  idle  sport,  and  following  where  it  led, 
I  found  a  doe  that  I  had  raised  and  fed, 
J59 


160  METEMPSYCHOSIS. 

Stricken,  and  bleeding  fast  her  life  away, 
Her  tender  fawn  transfixed  beside  her  lay  ; 

One  random  shaft  two  happy  lives  had  sped. 

The  dry  leaves  rustled  to  my  startled  tread, 
And    filled  my  fluttering    heart    with    strange 

dismay ; 
For  gazing  in  those  failing  eyes  my  soul 

Found  there  another  soul,  its  very  twin  ; 

Unseen  for  years,  but  bowered  deep  within 
The  heart's  alcove, — oh,  lost  beyond  control ! 
Those  murdered  eyes  still  gaze  as  from  a  glass 
Framed  in  with  bloody  leaves  and  trampled  grass. 


THREE  SONNETS  IN  MEMORIAM. 
i. 

DESPAIR — THE    ABYSS. 

DREAD  abyss,  narrow,  but  dark  and  deep, 
Still  baffling  all  that  men  piay  do  or  dare 

To  read  the  secrets  of  thy  jealous  care, 
The  mystery  that  thy  shuddering  caverns  keep, 
Over  thy  cruel  mouth  the  earth  I  heap, 

Hiding  my  treasure  like  a  miser  there. 

My  hollow  doubting  voice  I  lift  in  prayer  ; 
With  ghastly  lips  I  say  :  "  'T  is  but  a  sleep, 
And  I  shall  find  my  Ibved  one  freed  from  sorrow, 

Glowing  with  love,  and  youth  ineffable." 
O  fool,  the  only  sure  thing  thou  canst  borrow 

From  coming  years  is  death,  thou  knowest  well. 
Yet  even  this  is  gain  ;  then  hail  each  morrow 

That  brings  thee  nearer  to  the  self-same  cell. 

n. 

QUESTIONING. 

Beneath  the  leafless  trees  alone  I  stand, 
Where  we  two  stood  in  June.  O  loved  one,  where 
Are  now  the  radiant  hopes  that  filled  the  air, 

Circling  around  us  swiftly  like  a  band. ,  ^_.  -_. 
ii  161 


1 62      THREE   SONNETS  IN  MEMORIAM. 

Of  smiling  sisters,  clasping  hand  in  hand  ? 
Dearer  to  me  than  all  their  visions  fair 
This  chill  December  night,  so  thou  wert  there. 

And  hast  thou  sought  with  them  some  better  land  ? 

Would  heaven  be  darkened  for  one  form  the  less 
From  the  bright  throng  who  in  His  love  rejoice  ? 
From  the  celestial  choir  could  not  one  voice, 
Sweeter  than  all  the  rest,  be  spared  to  bless 
My  solitude  ?    Say,  dost  thou  sleep  alone, 
Voiceless,  beneath  the  unrelenting  stone  ? 

in. 
CONSOLATION. 

Alone?    Ah,  no  :  beneath  the  earth's  fair  crust 
Assemble  all  the  beautiful  and  good 
Whose  memory  transfigures  womanhood  ; 

And  kingly  men  are  there,  the  brave,  the  just ; 

How  sweet  to  mingle  with  that  sacred  dust ! 
Standing  to-night  where  we  so  oft  have  stood, 
Their  fragrance  fills  the  silent  solitude — 

Sweet  flowers  of  human  love  and  hope  and  trust. 

Where'er  thou  art,  O  sister  of  my  soul, 
Treading  with  gleaming  feet  the  streets  of  gold, 
Or  softly  mingling  with  the  forest  mold, 
Swift  years  shall  bear  me  to  the  self-same  goal, 
Our  radiant  heads  in  the  same  aureole, 
Or  the  same  flower-roots  thrill  our  ashes  cold. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  D.  G.  R. 

O  ATHED  in  the  morning  sunlight  them  didst 

*-*     stand, 

The  sisters  nine  in  homage  gathered  round, 
Son  of  Apollo,  with  his  laurels  crowned, 

His  lyre  of  lyres  trembling  in  thy  hand. 

The  brush  and  chisel  at  thy  high  command 
Enchantment  wrought,  but  sweeter  far  resounds 
The  music  of  thy  verse,  the  soulful  sounds 

Flung  from  thy  pen  as  from  a  magic  wand. 

Had  all  thy  wondrous  powers  to  song  been  given, 
What  floods  of  melody  had  filled  the  air — 
Eros'  and  Psyche's  voices  mingling  there. 

Alas !  the  wine  is  spilled,  the  lyre  is  riven, 

Stern  Albion's  son,  thy  soft  Italian  name 

I^ives  only  in  the  Pantheon  of  Fame. 


163 


IN  MEMORY  OF  JOHN  BROWN  OF  OSSA- 
WATTOMIE. 

INSCRIBED   TO  JOHN  J.    INGAI,I£. 
I. 

A    CLOUD  for  years  o'erhung  tlie  border-land, 
•*     Black,  ominous,  wherein  were  dimly  seen 

Soul-terrifying  shapes  of  beasts  unclean, 
And  men  uncleaner  still,  a  hideous  band, 
Loathsome  as  reptiles  from  the  slimy  strand 

Of  vanished  seas,  in  ages  pliocene. 

Prophets  the  portent  read  with  vision  keen, 
But  lying  seers  cried  "Peace,"  throughout  the 

land, 
'T  is  but  a  cloud-bank  changing  with  the  wind, 

And  craven  hearts  draw  their  own  pictures  there, 
And  traitors  sneered,  and  from  the  pulpit  whined 
Sleek  hypocrites,  blind  leaders  of  the  blind, 

Buyers  of  souls,  who  gathered  gold  with  care, 

With  gnashing  and  blaspheming  filled  the  air. 
164 


JOHN  BROWN  OF  OSSAWATTOMIE.      1 65 
II. 

A  soul  flamed  forth  like  a  titanic  brand, 
Or  fiery  meteor  through  the  murky  sky, 
Thrilled  by  electric  arrows  from  on  high  ; 
And  by  swift  wings  of  unseen  seraphs  fanned 
The  baleful  clouds  dispersed,  as  though  a  hand 
Omnipotent  had  swept  the  firmament 
And  from  its  face  the  darkening  veil  had  rent. 
Vague  shapes  of  fear,  as  by  enchanter's  wand, 
Were  changed  to  forms  substantial,  and  arose 
The  Nation's  foes,  implacable  and  fierce. 
The  canting  knave,  who  chapter  gave  and  verse 
To  justify  the  trade  in  human  woes, 
Slunk  with  his  broad  phylacteries  away, 
And  strong  men  armed  them  for  the  deadly  fray. 


III. 


True  greatness  is  the  greatest  in  defeat. 
A  laurel  wreath  entwined  about  that  head 
Had  but  obscured  the  glory  that  it  shed. 

Unshaken  in  his  high  prophetic  seat, 

Beyond  all  crowns  of  vict  'ry  grand  and  great 
In  happier  days,  as  when,  illusions  fled, 
His  fierce  foes  found  him  lying  'mid  his  dead, 

Alike  his  spirit  soared  secure  from  Fate. 


1 66    JOHN  BROWN  OF  OSSAWATTOMIE. 

So,  when  the  charging  battle  standards  meet, 
Gold  fringe  and  silken  fold  are  plucked  away 
As  by  the  myriad  beaks  of  birds  of  prey, 
Still  on  the  staff,  high  in  his  ancient  seat, 
The  brazen  eagle  sits,  serene,  the  same, 
Pride  of  the  legions  o'er  the  battle's  flame. 


OUR  I/DST  ONES. 

"  H£las  !  dans  le  cercueil  ils  tombent  en  poussi£re 
Moins  vite  qu'en  nos  cceurs." 

—HUGO. 

DRETHREN  and  sisters  all,  what  do  we  here, 

*-*     With  song  and  laughter,  while  around  us 

stand, 

With  dumb  reproachful  gaze,  a  shadowy  band, 
The  mournful  shades  of  all  our  lost  ones  dear  ? 

O  conquering  power  of  the  eternal  years  ! 
How  swiftly  fade  away  on  every  hand 
Their  memories  throughout  the  joyous  land, 

For  whom  we  thought  to  shed  eternal  tears. 

Smiling  above  them  wave  the  flowers  and  grass, 
WThere  cold  and  still  those  cherished  forms  are 

strown, 
Thickly  as  grain  in  the  deep  furrows  sown, 

Or  sheaves  in  fields  where  merry  reapers  pass. 

To  dust  they  wither  in  our  hearts,  alas  ! 
More  swiftly  than  beneath  the  cruel  stone. 


167 


THE  OCEAN  OF  THE  PAST. 

MY  wistful  eyes  still  sweep  thy  sullen  breast, 
Dead  sea,   whose  waves,  once,  following 

stroke  on  stroke, 

Have  swallowed  mast  and  sail  and  hull  of  oak. 
Now  all  thy  cruel  billows  are  at  rest ; 
Hushed  is  thy  roar,  and  stilled  each  raging  crest ; 
No  phantom  from  thy  mists  may  I  evoke, 
No  more  my  prow  or  sail  the  waves  provoke, 
Where  sleeps  my  happy  island  of  the  blest. 

I/),  while  I  gaze,  like  the  responsive  swell 
Of  some  great  yearning  heart,  the  billows  rise, 
Till,  in  wild  tumult  leaping  to  the  skies, 

They  toss  the  beauteous  wrecks  I  loved  so  well, 
Resistless  through  the  rending  barriers  roll 
And  sob  through  all  the  caverns  of  my  soul. 


168 


EVIL  DAYS. 

O  YOUTH,  O  Hope,  O  I/Dve,  all  phantoms 
vain  ! 

Ye  lured  me  long  with  promise  false  as  sweet, 
But  now  your  flight  outstrips  my  faltering  feet. 
Dear  traitors,  will  ye  ne'er  return  again  ? 
Love  lingered  last,  but  all  have  been  too  fleet. 
Now  sinks  the  light  of  day  in  tears  and  pain, 
The  glories  of  the  night  unheeded  wane  : 
Summer  is  winter,  truth  is  but  deceit. 

Shall  I  not  find  upon  some  vernal  day, 
Fruition  for  the  buds  that  blighted  here  ? 

The  golden  hours  of  youth  I  cast  away, 

How  I  would  hold  those  wasted  treasures  dear  ! 

Still  through  the  lonely  chambers  of  my  brain 

No  more,  no  more,  echoes  the  sad  refrain. 


169 


ENVY  AND  SlyANDKR. 

TO  N.  A.  M. 

NVY  is  deathless,  though  the  envious  die, 
And  shafts  of  slander,  hissing  through  the 

dark, 

Have  ever  loved,  like  death,  a  shining  mark. 
Then  do  not  think  those  shafts  could  pass  thee  by. 

Thy  conscious  worth,  and  purpose  pure  and  high 
Cannot  defend  from  little  curs  that  bark  ; 
No  wall,  high  as  the  flight  of  morning  lark, 

Can  top  the  poisoned  arrows  as  they  fly. 

Rise  o'er  the  herd  in  feeling,  thought,  or  deed, 
And  feel  the  bitter  sting  of  Knvy's  tongue  ; 
Rise  higher  yet,  and  thus  confound  the  throng, — 

Only  a  respite  brief  thy  soul  may  read. 

Success,  e'en  more  than  merit,  is  a  crime 

To  tongues  as  tireless  as  the  feet  of  Time. 


170 


TRUE  FREEDOM. 

TO  J.    F.    P. 

IT  E  is  not  truly  free  who  fears  to  speak 
*  *     The  burning  words  that  flame  from  heart 
to  tongue, 

When  in  the  presence  of  a  hoary  wrong, 
E'en  though  upheld  by  gown  and  surplice  sleek, 
And  hears  unheeded  the  oppressed  and  weak. 

Nor  friendship  from  the  great,  the  rich,  the 
strong, 

Nor  grateful  plaudits  from  the  servile  throng, 
The  free-born  spirit  must  expect  or  seek. 

Think  not  that  power  and  place  will  come  to 
thee— 

Sooner  some  sordid  soul  the  race  will  win  ; 

E'en  in  the  days  of  Cid  and  Paladin, 
And  glorious  days  of  Arthur's  chivalry, 
The  golden  spurs  by  cravens  oft  were  won, 
While  hearts  as  brave  as  Arthur's  died  unknown. 


171 


"SOCIETY." 

,  simple  friend,  and  did  you  think  to  find 
Aught  but  hypocrisy  and  fair  smooth  lies 
In  this  charmed  circle,  that  would  ostracize 
All  for  a  pair  of  gloves  the  most  refined, 
The  noblest  type  of  man  or  womankind  ? 
A  set  whose  aspirations  never  rise 
Above  the  triumphs  wealth  and  fashion  buys  ; 
Who  ape  the  opinions  with  devotion  blind, 
The  coats  and  gowns,  of  royal  debauchees 
And  their  bold  paramours  from  over  seas. 
How  hope  a  noble  womanhood  to  gain 
Nourished  upon  such  stifling  airs  as  these. 
Fashion  forbids  to  rise  above  a  plane 
That  dudes  and  lah-de-dahs  can  just  attain. 


172 


THE  STAGNANT  POOL. 

STOOPING  beside  a  stagnant  pool  to  drink 
I  saw  a  woman,  weary  and  forlorn, 

With  hair  unkempt,  and  garments  stained  and 

torn  ; 

All  grace  of  womanhood  was  fled,  no  link 
Remained  of  happier  days  ;  along  the  brink 

Swept  by  a  stately  dame  with  words  of  scorn  ; 

"Though  I  had  thirsted  since  the  early  morn, 
Before  my  feet  in  that  foul  wave  should  sink 
My  willing  lips  should  press  the  cup  of  death. ' ' 

O  scornful  dame  !  before  the  night  was  black, 

Lo  !  I  beheld  thy  swift  feet  speeding  back, 
With  robes  dishevelled  and  with  gasping  breath, 
In  this  same  wave  thy  parching  lips  to  cool, 
As  eagerly  as  't  were  a  mountain  pool. 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  MUCK-RAKE. 

A  N  old  and  well-known  allegory  reading, 
*~*  .  I  found  a  quaint  and  curious  picture  there, 
Of  one  who  gathered  straws  and  dirt  with  care, 
The  golden  crown  above  his  head  unheeding. 
Science  to-day,  than  avarice  more  misleading, 
Hath  slain  our  father's  faith   and  hope   and 

prayer ; 

We  rake  the  seas,  and  sweep  the  earth  and  air 
To  find  new  theories  for  our  own  impeding. 

And  some  for  tinsel  toys  of  social  glory, 

And  Church  and  State,  toil  through  the  grovel 
ling  years. 
How  can  we  hear  the  music  of  the  spheres, 

Clutching  the  muck-rakes  of  the  allegory  ? 

Our  blunted  senses  only  can  discern 

The  paltry  baubles  over  which  we  yearn. 


174 


IMMORTALITY. 

IV  A  Y  vision  floats  far  down  the  milky- way, 
*  *  *     A  shining  track  across  a  shoreless  sea 

As  deep  and  boundless  as  eternity. 
Suns  sail  in  myriads  there,  and  comets  stray, 
Youthful,  while  hoary  ages  roll  away. 
O  fleeting  life,  the  stars  that  shine  on  me 
Smiled  just  the  same  when  star-lit  Galilee 
Beneath  the  Saviour's  feet  in  slumber  lay. 

What  countless  swarms  of  man's  ephemeral  race 
I^ive,  love,  and  die,  while  ye  sail  coldly  on  ! 
Yet  they  shall  rise,  the  teeming  millions  gone, 

And  gaze  unmoved,   while  from  their   ancient 
place 

The  morning  stars  like  baleful  meteors  fleet, 

And  while  the  heavens  melt  with  fervent  heat. 


175 


TO  A  YOUNG  ARTIST. 

matchless  artists  of  the  olden  time 
Knew  naught  of  critic's  jargon  ;  to  their  toil 
Bending  as  one  that  digs  a  stony  soil, 
Sparing  nor    bloom    of   youth    nor    manhood's 

prime, 

They  caught  and  fixed  their  floating  dreams  sub 
lime. 

So  must  we  shun  all  vain  polemic  broil, 
Nor  vex  our  souls  with  theories'  turmoil 
If  to  ideal  heights  we  fain  would  climb. 

Our  vintage  time  is  speeding  fast  away, 

The  morning  faileth  ;  then  with  double  will, 
In  spite  of  noonday  glare  or  evening  chill, 

Gather  the  glowing  clusters  while  we  may. 

So  may  our  failing  eyes  see  some  faint  beams 

Shed  o'er  our  work  from  our  supernal  dreams. 


THE   END. 


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